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Digitized by the Internet Archive

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http://www.archive.org/details/poeticalwork02buch

THE

POETICAL WORKS of ROBERT BUCHANAN

Vol. II.

Mr. Robert Buchanan's Poetical and Prose Works
are now publishing in 5 Volumes, uniform in size
and price with the present.

Vol. I., with a Portrait, is now ready.

By the same Author.

Large post Svo. price icw. 6d.

MASTER-SPI RITS.

Uood books arc the precious life-blood ^/"Master-Spirits.

Milton.

Henry S. King & Co.

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

ROBERT BUCHANAN

VOL. II.

BALLADS and POEMS of LIFE

LYRICAL POEMS &c.

Henry S. King & Co.

65 Cornhili. & 12 Paternoster Row, London
1874

ek

V. A

(.-/// rights reserved)

CONTENTS

OF THE SECOND VOLUME

POEMS AXD BALLADS OF LIFE

PAGE

Willie Baird

3

John

21

Simmer Moon

37

Two Sons

39

The Widow Mysie ....

4*

Poet Andrew

53

Liz

72

Tom DuNSTAN ; or, The Politician

86

O'Murtogh

92

The Bookworm ....

97

Edward Crowhurst

100

Barbara Gray ....

134

CONTENTS OF

Artist and Model .

Jane Lewson . . . .

Lord Ronald's Wife

The Last of the Hangmen .

138
146
176

LYRICAL POEMS, ETC.

Pastoral Pictures.
I. Down the River
II. The Summer Pool

III. Up the River .

IV. Snow

201
209

212

221

Undertones.

I. The Satyr

226

II. Iris

• 238

III. The Naiad

. 242

IV. Selene ......

• 244

Pygmalion

. 248

The Swallows

• 259

On a Young Poetess's Grave

. 262

Sea-Wash

. 264

London, 1864 ......

. 266

The Modern Warrior ....

. 271

THE SECOND VOLUME

SONGS OF THE TERRIBLE YEAR (1870)

Ode to the Spirit of Augusts Comte

A Dirge for Kings

The Perfect State

The Two Voices

Ode before Paris .

A Dialogue in the Snow

The Prayer in the Night .

The Spirit of France .

The Apotheosis of the Sword

The Chaunt by the Rhine .

TAGE

277

282
287
292
297
300
308

313
316
324

FACES ON THE WALL

I. Lone House
II. Storm and Calm

III. Without and Within

IV. Napoleon .
V. Abraham Lincoln

VI. Walt Whitman .

VII. O Faces! .

VIII. ToTriflers .

IX. The Wanderers .

X. The Watcher of the Jieacon

XI. • And the Spirit of God moved upon the Waters'

336

337
338
339
340
34i
342
343
344
345
346

POEMS and BALLADS of LIFE

'I overheard Jove one day,' said Silenus, 'talking of destroying the Earth. He
said it had failed — they were all rogues and vixens, who went from bad to worse as
fast as the days succeeded each other. Minerva said she hoped not : they were
only ridiculous little creatures, with this odd circumstance, that they had a blur, or
indeterminate aspect, seen far or seen near. If you called them bad they would
appear so ; if you called them good they would appear so ; and there was no one
person or action among them which would not puzzle her Owl, much more all
Olympus, to know whether it was fundamentally bad or good.' — R. W. Emerson.

Stage Manager. Hoitytoity! here be death-beds! Every character in thy life-
drama dies !

Poet. Wherefore not ? 'What life is complete without its last word ? The public
are eager, and would behold all.

Stage Manager. But hast thou no fear of being deem'd dull ?

Poet. Let the grinning world go elsewhere I I do not disdain true comedy ; but
the strangest smiles I have seen have been in Death's eyes. Patience ; thou shah
see that the lean Anatomy is the veriest humourist ot all.

This World and Another.

!1

WILLIE BALRD
(Scottish Lowlands)

' An old man's tale, a talfe for men grey-hair'd,
Who wear, thro' second childhood, to the Lord. '

'Tis two-and-thirty summers since I came
To school the village lads of Inverburn.

My father was a shepherd old and poor,
Who, dwelling 'mong the clouds on norland hills,
His tartan plaidie on, and by his side
His sheep-dog running, redden'd with the winds
That whistle southward from the Polar seas :
I follow'd in his footsteps when a boy,
And knew by heart the mountains round our home ;
But when I went to Edinglass, to learn
At college there, I look'd about the place,
And heard the murmur of the busy streets
Around me, in a dream ; — and only saw
The clouds that snow around the mountain-tops,

B 2

4 WILLIE BAIRD

The mists that chase the phantom of the moon
In lonely mountain tarns, — and heard the while,
Not footsteps sounding hollow to and fro,
But wild winds, wailing thro' the woods of pine.
Time pass'd ; and day by day those sights and sounds
Grew fainter, — till they troubled me no more.

O Willie, Willie, are you sleeping sound ?
And can you feel the stone that I have placed
Yonder above you ? Are you dead, my doo ?
Or did you see the shining Hand that parts
The clouds above, and becks the bonnie birds,
Until they wing away, and human eyes,
That watch them while they vanish up the blue,
Droop and grow tearful ? Ay, I ken, I ken,
I'm talking folly, but I loved the child !
He was the bravest scholar in the school !
He came to teach the very Dominie —
Me, with my lyart locks and sleepy heart !

Oh, well I mind the day his mother brought
Her tiny trembling tot with yellow hair,
Her tiny poor-clad tot six summers old,
And left him seated lonely on a form
Before my desk. He neither wept nor gloom'd ;
But waited silently, with shoeless feet

WILLIE BAIRD

Swinging above the floor ; in wonder eyed

The maps upon the walls, the big black board,

The slates and books and copies, and my own

Grey hose and clumpy boots ; last, fixing gaze

Upon a monster spider's web that fill'd

One corner of the whitewashed ceiling, watch'd

The speckled traitor jump and jink about,

Till he forgot my unfamiliar eyes,

Weary and strange and old. ' Come here, my bairn ! '

And timid as a lamb he seedled up.

' What do they call ye ? ' ' Willie,' coo'd the wean.

Up-peeping slyly, scraping with his feet.

I put my hand upon his yellow hair,

And cheer'd him kindly. Then I bade him lift

The small black bell that stands behind the door

And ring the shouting laddies from their play.

' Run, Willie ! ' And he ran, and eyed the bell,

Stoop'd o'er it, seemed afraid that it would bite,

Then grasp'd it firm, and as it jingled gave

A timid cry — next laugh'd to hear the sound —

And ran full merry to the door and rang,

And rang, and rang, while lights of music lit

His pallid cheek, till, shouting, panting hard,

In ran the big rough laddies from their play.

Then, rapping sharply on the desk, I drove
The scholars to their seats, and beckon'd up

WILLIE BAIRD

The stranger ; smiling, bade him seat himself
And hearken to the rest. Two weary hours
Buzz-buzz, boom-boom, went on the noise of school,
While Willie sat and listen'd open-mouth'd ;
Till school was over, and the big and small
Flew home in flocks. But Willie stay'd behind.
I beckon'd to the mannock with a smile,
Took him upon my knee, and crack'd and talk'd.

First, he was timid ; next, grew bashful ; next,
He warm'd, and told me stories of his home,
His father, mother, sisters, brothers, all ;
And how, when strong and big, he meant to buy
A gig to drive his father to the kirk ;
And how he long'd to be a dominie !
Such simple prattle as I plainly see
Your wisdom smiles at. . . . Weel ! the laddie still
Was seated on my knee, when at the door
We heard a sound of scraping : Willie prick'd
His ears and listen'd, then he clapt his hands —
' Hey ! Donald, Donald, Donald ! ' [See ! the rogue
Looks up and blinks his eyes — he knows his name !]
' Hey, Donald, Donald ! ' Willie cried. At that
I saw beneath me, at the door, a Dog —
The very collie dozing at your feet,
His nose between his paws, his eyes half closed.

WILLIE BALRD 7

At sight of Willie, with a joyful bark

He leapt and gamboll'd, eyeing me the while

In queer suspicion ; and the mannock peep'd

Into my face, while patting Donald's back —

1 It's Donald ! He has come to take me home ! '

An old man's tale, a tale for men grey-hair'd,
Who wear, thro' second childhood, to the grave !
I'll hasten on. Thenceforward Willie came
Daily to school, and daily to the door
Came Donald trotting ; and they homeward went
Together — Willie walking slow but sure,
And Donald trotting sagely by his side.
[Ay, Donald, he is dead ! Be still, old man !]

What link existed, human or divine,
Between the tiny tot six summers old,
And yonder life of mine upon the hills
Among the mists and storms ? 'Tis strange, 'tis strange
But when I look'd on Willie's face, it seem'd
That I had known it in some beauteous life
That I had left behind me in the North !
This fancy grew and grew, till oft I sat —
The buzzing school around me — and would seem
To be among the mists, the tracks of rain,
Nearing the silence of the sleeping snow.

WILLIE BAIRD

Slowly and surely I began to feel
That I was all alone in all the world,
And that my mother and my father slept
Far, far away, in some forgotten kirk —
Remember'd but in dreams. Alone at nights,
I read my Bible more and Euclid less.
For, mind you, like my betters, I had been
Half scoffer, half believer ; on the whole,
I thought the life beyond a useless dream,
Best left alone, and shut my eyes to themes
That puzzled mathematics. But at last,
When Willie Baird and I grew friends, and thoughts
.Came to me from beyond my father's grave,
I found 'twas pleasant late at e'en to read
The Scripture — haply, only just to pick
Some easy chapter for my pet to learn —
Yet night by night my soul was guided on
Like a blind man some angel-hand convoys.

I cannot frame in speech the thoughts that fill'd
This grey old brow, the feelings dim and warm
That soothed the throbbings of this weary heart !
But when I placed my hand on Willie's head,
Warm sunshine tingled from the yellow hair
Thro' trembling fingers to my blood within !
And when I look'd in Willie's stainless eyes

WILLIE BALRD

I saw the empty ether, floating grey

O'er shadowy mountains murmuring low with winds !

And often when, in his old-fashion'd way,

He question'd me, I seem'd to hear a voice

From far away, that mingled with the cries

Haunting the regions where the round red sun

Is all alone with God among the snow ! j

Who made the stars ? and if within his hand
He caught and held one, would his fingers burn ?
If I, the grey-hair'd dominie, was dug
From out a cabbage garden such as he
Was found in ? if, when bigger, he would wear
Grey homespun hose and clumsy boots like mine,
And have a house to dwell in all alone ?
Thus would he question, seated on my knee,
While Donald \wheeskt, old man /] stretch'd lyart limbs
Under my chair, contented. Open-mouth'd
He hearken'd to the tales I loved to tell
About Sir William Wallace and the Bruce,
And the sweet Lady on the Scottish throne,
Whose crown was colder than a band of ice,
Yet seem'd a sunny crown whene'er she smiled ;
With many tales of genii, giants, dwarfs,
And little folk that play at jing-a-ring
On beds of harebells 'neath the silver moon ;

io WILLIE BAIRD

Stories and rhymes and songs of Wonder-land :
How Tammas Ercildoune in Elfland dwelt,
How Galloway's mermaid comb'd her golden hair,
How Tammas Thumb stuck in the spider's web,
And fought and fought, a needle for his sword,
Dyeing his weapon in the crimson blood
Of the foul traitor with the poison'd fangs !

And when we read the Holy Book, the child
Would think and think o'er parts he loved the best : —
The draught of fish, the Child that sat so wise
In the great Temple, Herod's cruel law
To slay the babes, or — oftenest of all —
The crucifixion of the Good Kind Man
Who loved the babes and was a babe himself.
He speir'd of death ; and were the sleepers cola
Down in the dark wet earth ? and was it God
That put the grass and flowers in the kirk-yard ?
What kind of dwelling-place was heaven above ?
And was it full of flowers'? and were there schools
And dominies there ? and was it far away?
Then, with a look that made your eyes grow dim,
Clasping his wee white hands round Donald's neck,
' Do doggies gang to heaven ? ' he would ask ;
' Would Donald gang? ' and keek'd in Donald's face,
While Donald blink'd with meditative gaze,

WILLIE BAIRD ti

As if he knew full brawly what we said,
And ponder'd o'er it, wiser far than we.
But how I answer'd, how explain'd, these themes,
I know not. Oft, I could not speak at all
Yet every question made me think of things
Forgotten, puzzled so, and when I strove
To reason puzzled me so much the more,
That, flinging logic to the winds, I went
Straight onward to the mark in Willie's way,
Took most for granted, laid down premises
Of Faith, imagined, gave *my wit the reins,
And often in the night, to my surprise,
Felt palpably an Angel's glowing face
Glimmering down upon me, while mine eyes
Dimm'd their old orbs with tears that came unbid
To bear the glory of the light they saw !

So summer pass'd. Yon chestnut at the door
Scatter'd its burnish'd leaves and made a sound
Of wind among its branches. Every day
Came Willie, seldom going home again
Till near the sunset : wet or dry he came :
Oft in the rainy weather carrying
A big umbrella, under which he walk'd —
A little fairy in a parachute,
Blown hither, thither, at the wind's wild will.

12 WILLIE BAIRD

Pieased was my heart to see his pallid cheeks
Were gathering rosy-posies, that his eyes
Were softer and less sad. Then, with a gust,
Old Winter tumbled shrieking from the hills,
His white hair blowing in the wind.

The house
Where Willie's mother lives is scarce a mile
From yonder hallan, if you take a cut
Before you reach the village, crossing o'er
Green meadows till you reach the road again ;
But he who thither goes along the road
Loses a reaper's mile. The summer long
Wee Willie came and went across the fields."
He loved the smell of flowers and grass, the sight
Of cows and sheep, the changing stalks of wheat,
And he was weak and small. When winter came,
Still caring not a straw for wind or rain
Came Willie and the Collie ; till by night ,
Down fell the snow, and fell three nights and days,
Then ceased. The ground was white and ankle-deep ;
The window of the school was threaded o'er
With flowers of hueless ice — Frost's unseen hands
Prick'd you from head to foot with tinging heat.
The shouting urchins, yonder on the green,
Play'd snowballs. In the school a cheery fire
Was kindled every day, and every day

WILLIE BAIRD

When Willie came he had the warmest seat,
And every day old Donald, punctual, came
To join us, after labour, in the lowe.

Three days and nights the snow had mistily fall n.
It lay long'miles along the country-side,
White, awful, silent. In the keen cold air
There was a hush, a sleepless silentness,
And mid it all, upraising eyes, you felt
Frost's breath upon your face. And in your blood,
Though you were cold to touch, was flaming fire,
Such as within the bowels of the earth
Burnt at the bones of ice, and wreath'd them round
With grass ungrown.

One day in school I saw,
Through threaded window-panes, soft snowy flakes
Swim with unquiet motion, mistily, slowly,
At intervals ; but when the boys were gone,
And in ran Donald with a dripping nose,
The air was clear and grey as glass. An hour
Sat Willie, Donald, and myself around
The murmuring fire ; and then with tender hand
I wrapt a comforter round Willie's throat,
Button'd his coat around him close and warm,
And off he ran with Donald, happy-eyed

14 WILLIE BAIRD

And merry, leaving fairy prints of feet

Behind him on the snow. I watch'd them fade

Round the white road, and, turning with a sigh,

Came in to sort the room and smoke a pipe

Before the fire. Here, dreamingly and alone,

I sat and smoked, and in the fire saw clear

The norland mountains, white and cold with snow,

That crumbled silently, and moved, and changed, —

When suddenly the air grew sick and dark,

And from the distance came a hollow sound,

A murmur like the moan of far-off seas.

I started to my feet, look'd out, and knew
, The winter wind was whistling from the east
To lash the snow-clothed plain, and to myself
I prophesied a Storm before the night.
Then with an icy pain, an eldritch gleam,
I thought of Willie ; but I cheer'd my heart,
' He's home, and with his mother, long ere this ! '
While thus I stood the hollow murmur grew
Deeper, the wold grew darker, and the snow
Rush'd downward, whirling in a shadowy mist.
I walk'd to yonder door and open'd it.
Whirr ! the wind swung it from me with a clang,
And in upon me with an iron-like crash
Swoop'd in the drift With pinch'd sharp face I gazed

WILLIE BAIRD 15

Out on the storm ! Dark, dark was all ! A mist,
A blinding, whirling mist, of chilly snow,
The falling and the driven ; for the wind
Swept round and round in spindrift on the earth,
And birm'd the deathly drift aloft with moans,
Till all was swooning darkness. Far above
A voice was shrieking, like a human cry.

I closed the door, and turn'd me to the fire,
With something on my heart — a load — a sense
Of an impending pain. Down the broad lum
Came melting flakes, that hiss'd upon the coal ;
Under my eyelids blew the blinding smoke ;
And for a time I sat like one bewitch'd,
Still as a stone. The lonely room grew dark,
The flickering fire threw phantoms of the fog
Along the floor and on the walls around ;
The melancholy ticking of the clock
Was like the beating of my heart. But, hush !
Above the moaning of the wind I heard
A sudden scraping at the door. . . my heart
Stood still and listened. . . and with that there rose
An anguish'd howl, shrill as a dying screech,
And scrape-scrape-scrape, the sound beyond the door !
I could not think — I could not cry nor breathe —
A fierce foreboding gript me like a hand,

1 6 WILLIE BA1RD

As opening the door I gazed straight out,
Saw nothing, till I felt against my knees
Something that moved, and heard a moaning sound —
Then, panting, moaning, o'er the threshold leapt
Donald, the dog, alone, and white with snow.

Down, Donald ! down, old man ! Sir, look at him !
I swear he knows the meaning of my words,
And tho' he cannot speak, his heart is full !
See now ! see now ! he puts his cold black nose
Into my palm and whines ! he knows, he knows !
Would speak, and cannot, but he minds that night !

The terror of my heart seem'd choking me :
Wildly I stared in wonder at the dog,
Who gazed into my face and whined and moan'd,
Leap'd at the door, then touched me with his paws,
And lastly, gript my coat between his teeth,
And pull'd and pull'd — with stifled howls and whines —
Till fairly madden'd, stupified with fear,
I let him drag me through the banging door
Out to the whirling Storm. Bareheaded, wild,
The wind and snow-drift beating on my face,
Blowing me hither, thither, with the dog,
I dash'd along the road. . . What follow'd, seem'd
An eerie, eerie dream !— a world of snow,

WILLIE BAIRD 17

A sky of wind, a whirling howling mist

Which swam around with countless flashing eyes ;

And Donald dragging, dragging, beaten, bruised,

Leading me on to something that I fear'd —

An awful something, and I knew not what !

On, on, and farther on, and still the snow

Whirling, the tempest moaning ! Then I mind

Of stooping, groping in the shadowy light,

And Donald by me, burrowing with his nose

And whining. Next a darkness, blank and deep !

But thai I mind of tearing thro' the storm,

Stumbling and tripping, blind and deaf and dumb,

But holding to my heart an icy load

I clutch'd with freezing fingers. Far away —

It seem'd long miles on miles away — I saw

A yellow light — unto that light I tore —

And last, remember opening a door

And falling, dazzled by a blinding gleam

Of human faces and a flaming fire,

And with a crash of voices in my ears

Fading away into a world of snow !

. . . When I awaken'd to myself, I lay
In mine own bed at home. I started up
As from an evil dream, andjook'd around,
When to my side came one, a neighbour's wife,

11 c

1 8 WILLIE BAIRD

Mother to two young lads I taught in school.

With hollow, hollow voice I question'd her,

And soon knew all : how a long night had pass'd

Since, with a lifeless laddie in my arms,

I stumbled, horror-stricken, swooning, wild,

Into a ploughman's cottage : at my side,

My coat between his teeth, a Dog ; and how

Senseless and cold I fell. Thence, when the storm

Had pass'd away, they bore me to my home.

I listen'd dumbly, catching at the sense ;

But when the woman mention'd Willie's name,

And I was fear'd to phrase the thought that rose,

She saw the question in my tearless eyes

And told me — he was dead.

'Twould weary you
To tell the thoughts, the fancies, and the dreams
That weigh'd upon me, ere I rose in bed,
But little harm'd, and sent the wife away,
Rose, slowly drest, took up my staff and went
To Willie's mother's cottage. As I walk'd,
Though all the air was calm and cold and still,
The blowing wind and dazzled snow were yet
Around about. I was bewilder'd like !
Ere I had time to think, I found myself
Beside a truckle bed, and at my side

WILLIE BAIRD 19

A weeping woman. And I clench'd my hands,
And look'd on Willie, who had gone to sleep.

In death gown white lay Willie fast asleep,
His blue eyes closed, his tiny fingers clench'd,
His lips apart a wee as if he breathed,
His yellow hair kaim'd back, and on his face
A smile — yet not a smile — a dim pale light
Such as the Snow keeps in its own soft wings.
Ay, he had gone to sleep, and he was sound !
And by the bed lay Donald watching still,
And when I look'd, he whined, but did not move.

I turn'd in silence, with my nails stuck deep
In my clench'd palms ; but in my heart of hearts
I pray'd to God. In Willie's mother's face
There was a cold and silent bitterness —
I saw it plain, but saw it in a dream,
And cared not. So I went my way, as grim
As one who holds his breath to slay himself.
What follow'd that is vague as was the rest :
A winter day, a landscape hush'd in snow,
A weary wind, a horrid whiteness borne
On a man's shoulder, shapes in black, o'er all
The solemn clanging of an iron bell,
And lastly me and Donald standing both
Beside £ tiny mound of fresh-heap'd earth.

) WILLIE BAIRD

And while around the snow began to fall
Mistily, softly, thro' the icy air,
Looking at one another, dumb and old.

And Willie's dead ! — that's all I comprehend —

Ay, bonnie Willie Baird has gone before !

I begg'd old Donald hard — they gave him me —

And we have lived together in this house

Long years, with no companions. There's no need

Of speech between us. Here we dumbly bide,

But know each other's sorrow, — and we both

Feel weary. When the nights are long and cold,

And snow is falling as it falleth now,

And wintry winds are moaning, here I dream

Of Willie and the unfamiliar life

I left behind me on those norland hills !

' Do doggies gang to heaven ? ' Willie ask'd ;

And ah ! what Solomon of modern days

Can answer that ? Yet here at nights I sit,

Reading the Book, with Donald at my side ;

And stooping, with the Book upon my knee,

I sometimes gaze in Donald's patient eyes —

So sad, so human, though he cannot speak —

And think he knows that Willie is at peace,

Far far away beyond the norland hills,

Beyond the silence of the untrodden snow.

JOHN

(England)

A ploughman's English wife, bright-eyed, sharp-speech'd,
Plump as a pillow, fresh as clothes new-bleach'd :
The firelight dancing ruddy on her cheeks,
Irons Tom's Sunday linen as she speaks.

At three-and-forty, simple as a child,
Soft as a sheep yet curious as a daw,
Wise, cunning, in a fashion of his own,
Queer, watchful, strange, a puzzle Jo us all : —
That's John !

My husband's brother — seven years
Younger than Tom. When we were wed and one,
John came to dwell with Tom and me for good,
And now has dwelt beside us twenty years,
But now, at forty-three, is breaking fast,
Grows weaker, brain and body, every day.
At times he works, and earns his meat and drink,
At times is sick, and lies and moans in bed.
Man-bodied, but in many things a child ;

22 JOHN

Unfinish'd somewhere — where, the Lord knows best
Who made and guards him ; wiser, craftier,
Than Tom, or any other man I know,
In tiny things few men perceive at all ;
No fool at cooking, clever at his work,
Thoughtful when Tom is senseless and unkind,
Kind with a grace that sweetens silentness, —
But weak where other working-men are strong,
And strong where they are weak. An angry word
From one he loves, — and off he creeps in pain —
Perhaps to ease his tender heart in tears.
But easy-sadden'd, sir, is easy-pleased !
Give him the babe to nurse, he sits him down,
Smiles like a woman, and is glad at heart.

Crazed ? There's the question ! For the Minister,
Your friend— and John's as well — will answer ' No ! '
And often has he scolded when I seem'd
To answer ' Yea.' Of late the weary limbs
Have tried the weary brain, that every day
Grows feebler, duller ; yet the Minister
Still stands his friend and helps him as he can.
' Tender of heart, goodwife, is wise of head :
If John is weak, his heart is to be blamed ;
And can the erring heart of mortal be

JOHh

O'er gentle ? ' Hey, 'tis little use to talk !
The Minister is soft at heart as he !

But yesterday John sat him on a stool,
And ripp'd the bellows up, to find from where
The wind came : slowly did it bit by bit,
As sage as Solomon, and when 'twas done
Just scratch'd his head, still puzzled, creeping off
To some still corner in the green fields, there
To think the puzzle out in peace alone.
There is his weakness — curiosity !
Those watchful, prying, curious eyes of his,
That like a cat's see better in the dark,
Are ne'er at rest ; his hands and eyes and ears
Are eager getting knowledge, — when 'tis got
Lord knoweth in what corner of his head
He hides it, — but it ne'er sees light again !

He buys a coat : what does he first, but count
The pockets and the buttons one by one —
A mighty calculation sagely summ'd.
Our eldest daughter goes a trip to town,
Brings home a box — John eyes the box with greed,
And next, we catch him in the wench's room,
The box wide open, John upon the floor,
And in his hand a bonnet, eyed and eyed,

24 JOHN

Turn'd o'er and o'er, examined bit by bit,

Tike something wondrous as a tumbled star.

Our youngest has a gift — a box of toys,

A penny trumpet — not a wink for John

Till he has seen the whole, or by and by

He gives the child a sixpence for the toy,

And creeping off dissects it all to bits,

In wonder and in joy. It makes me cry

For fun to watch his pranks, the Natural !

But think not, sir, that he was ever so : —

Nay ! twenty years ago he looked a man,

His step was firm, he kept his head erect,

Could hold his tongue, because he knew full well

That he was simpler-headed than the rest. —

Now, when his wits have gone so fast asleep,

He thinks he is the wisest man of men !

Yet ah ! his heart is kindly to the core,

Tho' sensitive to touch as fly-trap flowers :

He loves them best that seem to think him wise,

Consult him, notice him, and those that mock

His tenderness he never will forgive.

Money he saves to buy the children gifts —

Clothes, toys, whate'er he fancies like to please —

And many of his ways so tender are,

So gentle and so good, it fires my blood

To see him vex'd and troubled. Just a child !

yonx 25

He weeps in silence, if a little ill ;
A cold, a headache — he is going to die ;
But then, beside, he can be trusted, sir !
(You cannot say the like of many men !)
Tell him a secret, — torture, death itself,
Would fail to make him whisper and betray.

John, simple as he is, has had his cares :
They came upon him in his younger days
When he was tougher-headed, and I think
They help'd to make him silly as he is :
Time that has stolen all his little wits,
By just a change of chances, might have made
Our John another man and strengthen'd him.
The current gave a swirl, and caught the straw,
And John was doom'd to be a natural !
Oft when he sits and smokes his pipe and thinks,
Ye know by his downcast eyes and quivering lips
His heart is aching ; but he ne'er complains
Of that — the sorest thought he has to bear.
We know he thinks of Jennie Glover then ;
But let him be, till o'er his head the cloud
Passes, and leaves a meekness and a hush
Upon the heart it shadow'd. Jennie, sir? —
She was a neighbours daughter in her teens,
A bold and forward huzzie, tho' her face

26 JOHN

Was pretty in its way : a jet-black eye,

Red cheeks, black eyebrows, and a comely shape.

In here she came and stood and talked for hours

[Her tongue was like a bell upon a sheep —

Her very motion seem'd to make it jingj

And, ere I guess'd it, John and she were friends.

She pierced the silly with her jet-black eye,

Humour'd him ever, seem'd to think him wise,

Was serious, gentle, kindly, to his face,

And, ere I guess'd, so flatter'd his conceit

That, tho' his lips were silent at her side.

He grew a mighty man behind her back,

Held up his head in gladness and in pride,

And seem'd to have an errand, in the world.

At first I laugh'd and banter'd with the rest —

' How's Jennie, John ? ' and ' Name the happy day ; '

And ' Have ye spoken to the minister ? '

Thinking it just a joke ; and when the girl

Would sit by John, her arm about his neck,

Holding his hand in hers, and humour him.

Yet laugh her fill behind the silly's back,

I let it pass. I little liked her ways —

I guess'd her heart was tough as cobbler's wax —

Yet what of that ? — 'Twas but a piece of fun.

A piece of fun? — 'Twas serious work to John !

yonx 27

The huzzie lured him with her wicked eyes,
And danced about him, ever on the watch,
Like pussie yonder playing with a mouse.
1 saw but little of them, never dream'd
They met unknown to me ; but by and by
The country-side was ringing with the talk
That John and she went walking thro' the fields,
Sat underneath the slanted harvest sheaves
Watching the motion of the silver moon,
Met late and early — courted night and day —
John earnest as you please, and Jen for fun.
I held my peace awhile, and used my eyes !
New bows and ribbons upon Jennie's back,
Cheap brooches, and a bonnet once or twice,
Proved that the piece of fun paid Jennie well,
And showed why John no longer spent his pence
In presents to the boys. I saw it all,
But, pitying John, afraid to give him pain,
I spake to Jennie, sharply bade her heed,
Cried ' shame ' upon her, for her heartlessness.
The huzzie laugh'd and coolly went her way,
And after that came hither nevermore
To talk and clatter. But the cruel sport
Went on, I found. One day, to my surprise,
Up came a waggon to the cottage door,
John walking by the side, and while I stared

28 JOHN

He quickly carried to the kitchen here,

A table, chairs, a wooden stool, a broom,

Two monster saucepans, and a washing tub,

And last, a roll of blankets and of sheets.

The waggon went away, here linger'd John

Among the things, and blushing red says he,

' I bought them all at Farmer Simpson's sale —

Ye'll keep them till I need them for myself ! '

And then walk'd out. Long time I stood and stared,

Puzzled, amazed ; but by and by I saw

The meaning of it all. Alas for John !

The droh beginning of a stock in trade

For marriage stood before me. Jennie's eyes

And lying tongue had made him fairly crazed,

And ta'en the little wits he had to spare.

With flushing face, set teeth, away I ran

To Jennie Glover, and I told her all ;

And for a while she could not speak a word

For laughter. ' Shame upon thee, shame, shame, shame !

Thus to misuse the lad who loves thee so !

Mind, Jennie Glover, folks with scanty brains

Have hearts that can be broken ! ' Still she laugh'd !

But trust me, sir, I went not home again

Till Jennie's parents knew her wickedness ;

And last, I wrung a promise from her lips

From that day forth to trouble John no more,

JOHN 29

To let him know her fondness was a joke,
Pass by him in the street without a word,
And, though perhaps his gentle heart might ache,
Shake him as one would shake a drunken man
Until his sleepy wits awoke again.

I saw that Jennie Glover kept her word.

That night, when John was seated here alone,
Smoking his pipe, and dreaming as I guess'd
Of Jennie Glover and a wedding ring,
I stole behind him silently and placed
My hand upon his shoulder : when he saw
The shadow on my face, he trembled, flushed,
And knew that I was sad. I sank my voice,
And gently as I could I spake my mind,
Spake like a mother, told him he was wrong,
That Jennie only was befooling him
And laugh'd his love to scorn behind his back ;
And last, to soothe his pain, I raiPd at her,
Hoping to make him angry. Here he sat,
And let his pipe go out, and hung his head,
And never answer d back a single word.
'Twas hard, 'twas hard, to make him understand !
He could not, would not ! All his heart was wrapt
In Jennie Glover ; and at twenty-three
A full-grown notion thrusts its roots so deep,

JOHN

Tis hard indeed to drag it up and spare
The bleeding heart as well. Without a word
He crept away to bed. Next morn, his eyes
Were red with weeping — but 'twas plain to see
He thought I wrong'd both Jennie and himself.

That morning Jennie pass'd him on the road :
He ran to speak — she toss'd her head and laugh'd-
And sneering pass'd him by. All day he wrought
In silence at the plough — ne'er had he borne
A pang so quietly. At twilight hour
Home came he, weary : here was I alone :
Stubborn as stone he turn'd his head away,
Sat on his stool before the fire and smoked ;
Then while he smoked I saw his eyes were dim.
' John ! ' — and I placed my hand upon his arm.
He turn'd, seem'd choking, tried in vain to speak,
Then fairly hid his face and wept aloud, —
But never wept again.

The days pass'd on.
I held my tongue, and left the rest to time,
And warn'd both father and the boys. My heart
Was sore for John ! He was so dumb and sad,
Never complaining as he did of old,
And toiling late and early. By and by,

you. v 3i

' Margaret,' says he, as quiet as a lamb,
'■ Veil keep the things I bought at Simpson's sale —
I do not need them now ! ' and tried to smile,
But could not. Well, I thank'd him cheerily,
Nor seem'd to see his heart was aching so :
Then after that the boys got pence from John, —
The smaller playthings, and the bigger clothes :
He eased his heart by spending as of old
His money on the like.

Well may you cry
Shame, shame on Jennie ! Heartless, graceless girl !
I could have whipt her shoulders with a staff ! —
But God above had sorer tasks in store.
Ere long the village, like a peal of bells,
Rang out the tale that Jennie was a thief,
Had gone to Stanley Farm to work a week,
And stolen Phcebe Fleming's watch and chain —
They found them in her trunk, with scores of things
From poorer houses. Woe to Jennie then
If Farmer Fleming had unkindly been,
Nor spared her for her sickly father's sake !
The punishment was spared — she kept the shame !
The scandal rose, with jingling-jangling din,
And chattering wenches, wives, and mothers join'd.
At first she saw not that the sin was guess'd ;

32 JOHN

But slowly, one by one, her maiden friends,
Her very bosom-gossips, shook her off.
She heard the din, she blush'd and hid her face,
Shrinking away and trembling as with cold,
Like Eve within the Garden when her mouth
Was bitter with the apple of the Tree.

One night, when John returned from work and took
His seat upon the stool beside the fire,
I saw he knew the truth. For he was changed !
His look was dark, his voice was loud, his eyes
Had lost their meekness ; when we spoke to him,
He flush'd and answer'd sharply. He had heard
The tale of Jennie's shame and wickedness, —
What thought he of it all ? Believe me, sir,
He was a riddle still : in many things
So peevish and so simple, but in one —
His silly dream of Jennie Glover's face —
So manly and so dumb, — with power to hide
His sorrow in his heart and turn away,
Like one that shuts his eyes when men pass by
But looks on Him. 'Twas natural to think
John would have taken angry spiteful joy
In Jennie's fall, — for he was ever slow
Forgetting and forgiving injuries ;
But no ! his voice was dumb, his eyes were fierce,

JOHN 33

Yet chiefly when they mention'd Jen in scorn.
He seem'd contused and would not understand,
Perplext as when he breaks the children's toys.

Now, bold as Jennie was, she could not bear
The shame her sin had brought her, and whene'er
We met she tingled to the finger-tips ;
And soon she fled away to London town,
To hide among the smoke. It came to pass,
The Sabbath after she had flitted off",
That Mister Mortimer (God bless him !) preach'd
One of those gentle sermons low and sad
Wherewith he gathers grain for Him he serves :
The text — let him who is sinless cast the first
Stone at the sinner ; and we knew he preach'd
Of Jennie Glover. Hey ! to hear him talk
Ye would have sworn that Jennie was a saint,
An injured thing for folk to pet and coax !
But tho' you knew 'twas folly, springing up
Out of a heart so kindly to the core,
Your eyes were dim with tears while hearkening —
He spake so low and sadly. John was there.

And early down the stairs came John next day
Drest in his Sabbath clothes. ' I'm going away,'
He whispers, ' for a day or maybe two —

n D

34 JOHN

Don't be afraid if I'm away at night,
And do not speak to Tom ; ' and off he ran
Ere I could question. When the evening came,
No sign of John ! Night pass'd, and not a sign !
Tom sought him far and near without avail.
The next night came, and we were sitting here
Weary and wondering, listening, as we sat,
To every step that pass'd, when in stept John,
And sat beside the fire ; but when we ask'd
Where he had been, he snapt us short and crept
Away to bed.

Yet by and by, I heard
The truth from John himself— a truth indeed
That was and is a puzzle, will remain
A puzzle to the end. And can ye guess
Where John had been ? Away in London town
At Jennie Glover's side, holding her hand
And looking in her eyes !

'Jennie ! ' he said ;
And while she stared stood scraping with his shoes,
And humm'd and haw'd and stammer'd out a speech,
Whose sense, made clear and shorten'd, came to this :
The country folk that call'd her cruel names
And niock'd her so, had done the same by him !

yoi/y 35

He did not give a straw for what they said !
He did not give a straw, and why should she ?
And tho' she laugh 'd before, perchance when folk
. Miscall'd her, frightened her from home and friends,
She'd turn to simple John and marry him?
For he had money, seven pound and more,
And yonder in his home, to stock a house,
He had the things he bought at Simpson's sale ;
His master paid him well, and he could work ;
And, if she dried her eyes and married him,
Who cared for country tattle, and the folk
That thought them crazed ? . . . John, then and now

ashamed,
Said that she flung her arms about his neck,
And wept as if her heart was like to break,
And told him sadly that it could not be.
He scratch'd his head, and stared, and answer'd nought —
His stock of words was done ; but last, he forced
His money in the weeping woman's hand,
And hasten'd home as fast as he could come.

He feels it still ! it haunts him night and day !
Ay, silly tho' he be, he keeps the thought
Of Jennie hidden in his heart ; and now,
Wearing away like snowdrift in the sun,

D 2

36 JOHN

If e'er he chance to see, on nights at home,
One of the things he bought at Simpson's sale
(I keep them still, tho' they are worn and old),
His eyes gleam up, then listen, — then are dark.*

* ' John,' like many of the writer's crude early studies, is a picture
from the life. When the poem was written, the original still lived,
but since its publication he has died ; and though the reader may
weaiy of death-beds, I wish I could describe this one — it was so
sweet and strange. I write this note because this very poem, when
it first appeared, was described by a hostile critic as a production
'of the inner consciousness.' In revising it now (1873) I merely
transpose the scene back to England, where it was originally laid,
and where the events really occurred. It was first issued in the
Scottish series, Idyls of Liver bunt. — R. B.

37

SUMMER MOON.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, across the West you

fly,

You gaze on half the earth at once with sweet and stead-
fast eye ;
Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, were I aloft with thee,
I know that I could look upon my boy who sails at sea.

ii

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you throw your silver

showers
Upon a glassy sea that sighs round shores of fruit and

flowers,
And on the blue tide's silver edge drop blossoms in the

breeze,

And the shadow of the ship lies dark near shades of
orange-trees.

38 SUMMER MOON

in

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, now wind and storm

have fled,
Your light creeps thro' a cabin-pane and lights a flaxen

head :
He tosses with his lips apart, lies smiling in your gleam,
For underneath his folded lids you put a gentle dream.

IV

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, his head is on his arm,
He stirs with balmy breath and sees the moonlight on the

Farm,
He stirs and breathes his mother's name, he smiles and

sees once more
The Moon above, the fields below, the shadow at the

door.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, across the lift you go,
Far south you gaze and see my Boy, where groves of

orange grow !
Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you turn again to me,
And seem to have the smile of him who sleeps upon the

sea!

39

TWO SONS

i.

I have two Sons, Wife —
Two, and yet the same ;
One his wild way runs, Wife,
Bringing us to shame.
The one is bearded, sunburnt, grim, and fights across the

sea,
The other is a little Child who sits upon your knee.

ii

One is fierce and cold, Wife,

As the wayward Deep ;
Him no arms could hold, Wife,
Him no breast could keep.
He has tried our hearts for many a year, not broken

them ; for he
Is still the sinless little one that sits upon your knee.

4o 7 WO SOA'S

III

One may fall in fight, Wife —

Is he not our son?
Pray with all your might, Wife,
For the wayward one ;
Pray for the dark, rough soldier, who fights across the

sea,
Because you love the little shade who smiles upon your
knee.

IV

One across the foam, Wife,

As I speak may fall ;
But this one at home, Wife,
Cannot die at all.
They both are only one ; and how thankful should we

be,
We cannot lose the darling Son who sits upon your knee !

41

THE WIDOW MYSIE.

(Scottish Lowlands. )

Tarn Love, a man ' prepared for friend or foe,
WhiskerM, well-featured, tight from top to toe.'

0 Widow Mysie, smiling, soft, and sweet !
O Mysie, buxom as a sheaf of wheat !
O Mysie, Widow Mysie, late Monroe,
Foul fall the traitor-face that served me so !

0 Mysie Love, a second time a bride,

1 pity him who tosses at your side —

Who took, by honied smiles and speech misled,
Grief to his hearth, Dalilah to his bed !

You saw her at the ploughing match, you ken,
Ogling the whisky and the handsome men :
The smiling woman in the Paisley shawl,
Plump as a partridge, and as broad as tall,
With ribbons, bows, and jewels fair to see,
Bursting to blossom like an apple-tree,
And every ribbon, bow, and jewel fine
Perfumed like apple blossoms dipt in wine.

2 THE WIDOW MYSIE

Ay, that was Mysie, — now two score and ten,
Now Madam Love of Bungo in the Glen !

Oh, years roll on, and fair things fade and pine ! —

Twelve sowings since, and I was twenty-nine :

With ploughman's coat on back, and plough in hand,

I wrought at Bungo on my father's land,

And all the neighbour-lassies, stale or fair,

Tried hard to net my father's son and heir.

My heart was lightsome, cares I had but few,

I climb d the mountains, drank the mountain dew,

Could sit a mare as mettlesome as fire,

Could put the stone with any in the shire,

Had been to college, and had learn'd to dance,

Could blether thro' my nose like folks in France,

And stood erect, prepared for friend or foe,

Whisker'd, well-featured, tight from top to toe.

' A marriageable man, for every claim
Of lawful wedlock fitted,' you exclaim ?
— Of all that mortal men enjoy or treasure,
Wedlock, I fancied, was the driest pleasure !
True ; seated at some pretty peasant's side,
Under the slanted sheaves I loved to hide.
Lilting the burthen of a Scottish tune,
To sit, and kiss perchance, and watch the moon,

THE IV mOW MYSIE 43

Pillow'd on breasts like beds of lilies white
Heaving and falling in the pale moonlight ;
But rather would have sat with crimson face
Upon the cutty-stool with Jean or Grace,
Than buy in kirk a partner with the power
To turn the mountain milk of Freedom sour.

I loved a comely face, as I have said,

But sharply watch'd the maids who wish'd to wed, —

I knew their arts, was not so cheaply won,

They loved my father's Siller, not his Son.

Still, laughing in my sleeve, I here and there

Took liberties allow'd my father's heir,

Stole kisses from the comeliest of the crew,

And smiled upon the virgin nettles too.

So might the game have daunder'd on till this,

And lasted till my father went to bliss, —

But Widow Mysie came, as sly as sin,

And settled in the ' William Wallace' Inn.

The Inn had gone to rack and loss complete
Since Simpson drown'd himself in whisky neat ;
And poor Jock Watt who follow'd in his shoes,
Wived with the sourest, gumliest of shrews,
(The whisky vile, the water never hot,
The very sugar sour'd by Mistress Watt,)

44 THE WIDOW MYSIE

Had found the gossips, grumbling, groaning, stray
To Sandie Kirkson's, half a mile away.
But hey ! at Widow Mysie's rosy face,
A change came o'er the spirits of the place,
The fire blazed high, the shining pewter smiled,
The glasses glitter'd bright, the water boil'd,
Grand was the whisky, Highland born and fine,
And Mysie, Widow Mysie, was divine !

Oh, sweet was Widow Mysie, sweet and sleek !
The peach's blush and down were on her cheek,
And there were dimples in her tender chin
For Cupids small to hunt for kisses in ;
Dark -glossy were her ringlets, each a prize,
And wicked, wicked were her beaded eyes ;
Plump was her figure, rounded and complete,
And tender were her tiny tinkling feet !
All this was nothing to the warmth and light
That seem'd to hover o'er her day and night ; —
Where'er she moved, she seem'd to soothe and please
With pleasant murmurs as of humble-bees ;
Her small plump hands on public missions flew
Like snow-white doves that flying croon and coo ;
Her feet fell patter, cheep, like little mice ;
Her breath was soft with sugar and with spice ;

THE WIDOW MYSIE 45

And when her finger — so ! — your hand would press,

You tingled to the toes with loveliness,

While her dark eyes, with lessening zone in zone,

Flasht sunlight on the mirrors of your own,

Dazzling your spirit with a light intense

That seem'd more innocent than innocence !

Sure one so beauteous and so sweet had graced
And cheer'd the scene, where'er by Fortune placed ;
But with a background of the pewter bright,
Whereon the fire cast gleams of rosy light,
With jingling glasses round her, and a scent
Of spice and lemon-peel where'er she went,
What wonder she should to th cronies seem
An Angel, in a cloud of toddy steam ?
What wonder, while I sipt my glass one day,
She (and the whisky) stole my heart away ?

She was not loath ! — for, while her comely face
Shone full on other haunters of the place,
From me she turn'd her head and peep'd full sly
With just the corner of her roguish eye,
And blush'd so bright my toddy seem'd to glow
Beneath the rosy blush and sweeter grow ;
And once, at my request, she took a sip,
And sweeten'd all the liquor with her lip.

46 1IIE WIDOW MYS1E

' Take heed ! for Widow Mysie's plans are plain
The gossips cried, but warn'd me all in vain :
Like sugar melting at the whisky's kiss,
My very caution was dissolved in bliss,
Fear died for ever with a mocking laugh,
And Mysie's kisses made his epitaph.

Kisses ? Ay, faith ! they follow'd score on score,

After the first I stole behind the door,

And linger'd softly on these lips of mine

Like Massic liquor drunk by bards divine.

But oh ! the glow, the rapture, and the glee,

That night she let me draw her on my knee —

When bliss thrill'd from her to my finger-tips,

Then eddied wildly to my burning lips,

From which she drank it back with kisses fain,

Then blush'd, and glow'd, and breathed it back again ! —

Till, madden'd with the ecstasy divine,

I clasp'd her close and craved her to be mine,

And thrilling, panting, struggling up to fly,

She breathed a spicy ' Yes ' with glistening eye,

And while my veins grew bright, my heart went wild,

Fell like a Sunbeam on my heart, and smiled !

The deed thus done, I hied me home, you say,
And rued my folly when I woke next day ?

THE WIDOW MYSIE 47

Nay ! all my business was to crave and cry
That Heaven would haste the holy knot to tie,
Though ' Mysie lass,' I said, ' my gold and gear
Are small, and will be small for many a year,
Since father is but fifty years and three,
And tough as cobbler's wax, though spare and wee ! '
' Ah, Tam,' she sigh'd, ' there's nothing there to rue—
The gold, the gear, that Mysie wants is you ! '
And brightly clad, with kisses thrilling through me,
Clung like a branch of trembling blossoms to me.

I found my father making up his books,

With yellow eyes and penny-hunting looks.

' Father/ I said, ' I'm sick of single life,

And will, if you are willing, take a wife.'

' Humph,' snapt my father, ' (six and four are ten,

And ten are twenty) — Marry? who ? and when ? '

' Mistress Monroe,' I said, ' that keeps the Inn.'

At that he shrugged his shoulders with a grin :

'.I guess'd as much ! the tale has gone the round !

Ye might have stay'd till I was underground !

But please yourself — I've nothing to refuse, —

Choose where you will — you're old enough to choose :

But mind,' he added, blinking yellow eye,

' I'll handle my own guineas till I die !

I frankly own, you might have chosen worse,

Since you have little siller in your purse —

43 THE WIDOW MYSIE

The Inn is thriving, if report be true,
And Widow Mysie has enough for two ! '

' And if we wait till he has gone his way,
Why, Mysie, I'll be bald, and you'll be gray,'
I said to Mysie, laughing at her side.
' Oh, let him keep his riches,' she replied,
' He's right ! there's plenty here for you and me !
May he live long ; and happy may he be ! '
' O Mysie, you're an angel/ I return'd,
With eye that glisten'd dewily and yearn'd.
Then running off she mix'd, with tender glee,
A glass of comfort — sat her on my knee —
' Come, Tam ! ' she cried, c who cares a fig for wealth-
Ay, let him keep it all, and here's his health ! '
And added, shining brightly on my breast,
' Ah, Tam, the siller's worthless — Love is best ! '

O Widow Mysie, wert thou first sincere,
When tender accents trembled on mine ear,
Like bees that o'er a flower will float and fleet,
And ere they light make murmurs soft and sweet?
Or was the light that render'd me unwise,
Guile's — the sweet Quaker with the downcast eyes ?
O Widow Mysie, not at once are we
Taught the false scripture of Hypocrisy ;

THE WIDOW MYS1E

Even pink Selfishness has times, I know,
When thro' his fat a patriot's feelings glow;
Falsehood first learns her nature with a sigh,
And nurses bitterly her first-born Lie.

Days pass'd ; and I began, to my amaze,
To see a colder light in Mysie's gaze ;
Once when, with arm about her softly wound,
I snatch'd a kiss, she snapt and flusht and frown'd ;
But oftener her face a shadow wore,
Such as had never darken'd it before ;
I spoke of this, I begg'd her to explain, —
She tapt my cheek, and smiled, and mused again.
But, in the middle of my love-alarm,
The Leech's watch went ' tick ' at Bungo Farm ;
My father sicken'd, and his features cold
Retain'd the hue, without the gleam, of gold.

Then Mysie soften'd, sadden'd, and would speak
Of father's sickness with a dewy cheek ;
When to the Inn I wander'd, unto me,
Lightly, as if she walk'd on wool, came she,
And ' Is he better ? ' ' Is he changed at all ? '
And ' Heaven help him ! ' tenderly would call.
' So old — so ill — untended and alone !
He is your father, Tarn, — and seems my own ! '

II E

49

50 THE WIDOW MYS1E

And musing stood, one little hand of snow
Nestling and fluttering on my shoulder — so !
But father sicken'd on, and then one night,
When we were sitting in the ingle-light,
' O Tarn,' she cried, ' I have it ! — I should ne'er
Forgive myself for staying idly here,
■While he, your father, lack'd in his distress
The love, the care, a daughter's hands possess.
He knows our troth — he will not say me nay ;
But let me nurse him as a daughter may,
And he may live, for darker cases mend,
To bless us and to join us in the end ! '

' But, Mysie ' ' Not a word, the thing is plann'd,'

She said, and stopt my mouth with warm white hand.
She went with gentle eyes that very night,
Stole to the chamber like a moonbeam white ;
My father scowl'd at first, but soon was won —
The keep was carried, and the deed was done !

O Heaven ! in what strange Enchanter's den
Learnt she the spells wherewith she conquer'd men ?
When to that chamber she had won her way,
The old man's cheek grew brighter every day ;
She smooth'd the pillows underneath his head,
She brought sweet music round about his bed ;
She made the very mustard-blisters glow
With fire as soft as youthful lovers know ;

THE WIDOW MYSIE 51

The very physic bottles lost their gloom

And seem'd like little fairies in the room ;

The very physic, charm'd by her, grew fine,

Rhubarb was nectar, castor-oil was wine.

Half darkly, dimly, yet with secret flame

That titillated up and down his frame,

The grim old man lay still, with hungry eye

Watching her thro' the room on tiptoe fly ; —

She turn'd her back — his cheek grew dull and dim !

She turn'd her face — its sunshine fell on him !

Better and better every day grew he,

Colder and colder grew his nurse to me,

Till up he leapt, with fresh new life astir,

And only sank again — to kneel to her !

1 Mysie ! ' I cried, with flushing face, too late
Stung by the pois'nous things whose names I hate,
Which in so many household fires flit free,
The salamanders, Doubt and Jealousy, —
' Mysie ! ' — and then, in accents fierce and bold,
Demanded why her looks had grown so cold ?
She trembled, flush'd, a tear was in her eye,
She dropt her gaze, and heaved a balmy sigh,
Then spoke with tender pauses low and sad :
Had I a human heart ? I hoped I had.

52 THE WIDOW MYSIE

Could I without a conscience-qualm behold

My white-hair'd father, weak, untended, old,

Who had so very short a time to iive,

Reft of the peace a woman's hands could give ?

' Mysie ! ' I shriek'd, with heart that seem'd to rend,

With glaring eyes, and ever}- hair on end.

Clasping her little hands, ' O Tarn ! ' she cried,

' But for my help your father would have died ;

Bliss ! to have saved your filial heart that sorrow !

But for my help, why, he may die to-morrow.

Go, Tarn ! — this weak warm heart I cannot trust

To utter more — be generous ! be just !

Go, Tarn ! Be happy ! Bless you ! Wed another !-

And I shall ever love you ! — as a mother / '

Ev'n so it was. Stunn'd, thunder-stricken, wild,
I raved, while father trembled, Mysie smiled ;
O'er all the country-side the scandal rang,
And ere I knew, the bells began to clang ; —
And shutting eyes and stopping ears, as red
As ricks on fire, I blushing turn'd and fled.
Twelve years have pass'd since I escaped the net,
And father, tough as leather, lingers yet,
A grey mare rules, the laugh has come to me,
I sport, and thank my stars that I am free !

53

POET ANDREW*
(Scottish Lowlands)

O Loom, that loud art murmuring
What doth he hear thee say or sing ?
Thou hummest o'er the dead one's songs,

He cannot choose but hark,
His heart with tearful rapture throngs,
But all his face grows dark.

O cottage Fire, that burnest bright,
What pictures sees he in thy light ?
A city's smoke, a white white face,

Phantoms that fade and die,
And last, the lonely burial-place

On the windy hill hard by.

'Tis near a year since Andrew went to sleep —
A winter and a summer. Yonder bed
Is where the boy was born, and where he died,
And yonder o'er the lowland is his grave :
The nook of grass and gowans where in thought
I found you standing at the set o' sun . . .
The Lord content us — 'tis a weary world.

* See the ' Life of David Gray.'

54 POET ANDREW

These five-and-twenty years I've wrought and wrought
In thin same dwelling ; — hearken ! you can hear
The looms that whuzzle-whazzle ben the house,
Where Jean and Mysie, lassies in their teens,
And Jamie, and a neighbour's son beside,
Work late and early. Andrew who is dead
Was our first-born ; and when he crying came,
With beaded een and pale old-farrant face,
Out of the darkness, Mysie and myseP
Were young and heartsome ; and his smile, be sure,
Made daily toil the sweeter. . . . Weel ! ... in time
Came other children,

And Andrew quitted Mysie's breast for mine.
So years roll'd round, like bobbins on a loom ;
And Mysie and myseP had work to do,
And Andrew took his turn among the rest,
No sweeter, dearer ; till, one Sabbath day,
When Andrew was a curly-pated tot
Of sunny summers six, I had a crack
With Mister Mucklewraith the Minister,
Who put his kindly hand on Andrew's head,
CalPd him a clever wean, a bonnie wean,
Clever at learning, while the mannikin
Blush'd red as any rose, and peeping up
Went twinkle-twinkle with his round black een ;
And then, while Andrew laugh'd and ran awa',

POET ANDREW 55

The Minister went deeper in his praise,
And prophesied he would become in time
A man of mark. This set me thinking, sir,
And watching, — and the mannock puzzled me.

Would sit for hours upon a stool and draw
Droll faces on the slate, while other lads
Were shouting at their play ; dumbly would lie
Beside the Lintock, sailing, piloting,
Navies of docken-leaves a summer-day ;
Had learn'd die hymns of Doctor Watts by heart,
And as for old Scots songs, could lilt them a' —
From Yarrow Braes to Bonnie Bessie Lee —
And where he learn'd them, only Heaven knew ;
And oft, altho' he feared to sleep his lane,
Would cowrie at the threshold in a storm
To watch the lightning, — as a birdie sits,
With fluttering fearsome heart and dripping wings,
Among the branches. Once [I mind it weel]
In came he, running, with a bloody nose,
Part tears, part pleasure, to his fluttering heart
Holding a callow mavis golden-bill'd,
The thin white film of death across its een,
And told us, sobbing, how a neighbour's son
Harried the birdie's nest, and how by chance
He came upon the thief beside the burn

56 POET ANDREW

Throwing the birdies in to see them swim,

And how he fought him, till he yielded up

This one, the one remaining of the nest ; —

And ' O the birdie's dying ! ' sobb'd he sore,

' The bonnie birdie 's dying ! ' — till it died ;

And Andrew dug a grave behind the house,

Buried his dead, and cover'd it with earth,

And cut, to mark the grave, a grassy turf

Where blew a bunch of gowans. After that,

I thought and thought, and thick as bees the thoughts

Buzz'd to the whuzzle-whazzling of the loom —

/ could make naething of the mannikin !

But by and by, when Hope was making hay,

And web-work rose, I settled it and said

To the good wife, ' Tis plain that yonder lad

Will never take to weaving — and at school

They say he beats the rest at all his tasks

Save figures only : I have settled it :

Andrew shall be a minister — a pride

And comfort to us, Mysie, in our age :

He shall to college in a year or twa

(If Fortune smiles as now) at Edinglass.'

You guess the wife open'd her een, cried ' Foosh ! '

And call'd the plan a silly senseless dream,

A hopeless, useless castle in the air ;

But ere the night was out, I talk'd her o'er,

POET ANDREW 57

And here she sat, her hands upon her knees,
Glow'ring and heark'ning, as I conjured up,
Amid the fog and reek of Edinglass,
Life's peaceful gloaming and a godly fame.
So it was broach'd, and after many talks
With Mister Mucklewraith, we plann'd it all,
And day by day we laid a penny by
To give the lad when he should quit the bield.

And years wore on ; and year on year was cheer'd
By thoughts of Andrew, drest in decent black,
Throned in a Pulpit, preaching out the Word,
A house his own, and all the country-side
To touch their bonnets to him. Weel, the lad
Grew up among us, and at seventeen
His hands were small and white, and he was tall,
And slim, and narrow-shoulder'd : pale of face,
Silent, and bashful. Then we first began
To feel how muckle more he knezo than we,
To eye his knowledge in a kind of fear,
As folk might look upon a crouching beast,
Bonnie, but like enough to rise and bite.
Up came the cloud between us silly folk
And the young lad that sat among his Books
Amid the silence of the night ; and oft
It pain'd us sore to fancy he would learn

58 POET ANDREW

Enough to make him look with shame and scorn

On this old dwelling. 'Twas his manner, sir !

He seldom look'd his father in the face,

And when he walk'd about the dwelling, seem'd

Like one superior ; dumbly he would steal

To the burnside, or into Lintlin Woods,

With some new-farrant book, — and when I peep'd,

Behold a book of jingling-jangling rhyme,

Fine-written nothings on a printed page ;

And, press'd between the leaves, a flower perchance,

Anemone or blue Forget-me-not,

Pluck'd in the grassy woodland. Then I peep'd

Into his drawer, among his papers there,

And found — you guess ? — a heap of idle rhymes,

Big- sounding, like the worthless printed book :

Some in old copies scribbled, some on scraps

Of writing paper, others finely writ

With spirls and flourishes on big white sheets.

I clench'd my teeth, and groan'd. The beauteous dream

Of the good Preacher in his braw black dress,

With house and income snug, began to fade

Before the picture of a drunken loon

Bawling out songs beneath the moon and stars, —

Of poet Willie Clay, who wrote a book

About King Robert Bruce, and aye got fu',

And scatter'd stars in verse, and aye got fu',

POET ANDREW 59

Wept the world's sins, and then got fii' again, —

Of Ferguson, the feckless limb o' law, —

And Robin Burns, who gauged the whisky-casks

And brake the seventh commandment. So at once

I up and said to Andrew, ' You're a fool i

You waste your time in silly senseless verse,

Lame as your own conceit : take heed ! take heed !

Or, like your betters, come to grief ere long ! '

But Andrew flush'd and never spake a word,

Yet eyed me sidelong with his beaded een,

And turn'd awa', and, as he turn'd, his look —

Half scorn, half sorrow — stang me. After that,

I felt he never heeded word of ours,

And tho' we tried to teach him common-sense

He idled as he pleased ; and many a year,

After I spake him first, that look of his

Came dark between us, and I held my tongue,

And felt he scorn'd me for the poetry's sake.

This coldness grew and grew, until at last

We sat whole nights before the fire and spoke

No word to one another. One fine day,

Says Mister Mucklewraith to me, says he,

1 So ! you've a Poet in your house ! ' and smiled ;

1 A Poet ? God forbid ! ' I cried ; and then

It all came out : how Andrew slyly sent

Verse to the paper \ how they printed it

60 POET ANDREW

In Poet's Corner ; how the printed verse

Had tum'd his head ; how Mistress Mucklewraith

Had cut the verses out and pasted them

In albums, and had praised them to her friends.

I said but little ; for my schemes and dreams

Were tumbling down like castles in the air,

And all my heart seem'd hardening to stone.

But after that, in secret stealth, I bought

The papers, hunted out the printed verse,

And read it like a thief; thought some were good,

And others foolish havers, and in most

Saw naething, neither common-sense nor sound —

Words pottle-bellied, meaningless, and strange,

That strutted up and down the printed page,

Like Bailies made to bluster and look big.

'Twas useless grumbling. All my silent looks
Were lost, all Mysie's flyting fell on ears
Choke-full of other counsel ; but we talk'd
In bed o' nights, and Mysie wept, and I
Felt stubborn, wrothful, wrong'd. It was to be !
But mind you, though we mourn'd, we ne'er forsook
The college scheme. Our sorrow, as we saw
Our Andrew growing cold to homely ways,
And scornful of the bield, but strengthen'd more
Our wholesome wish to educate the lad,

POET ANDREW 61

And do our duty by him, and help him on

With our rough hands — the Lord would do the rest,

The Lord would mend or mar him. So at last,

New-clad from top to toe in homespun cloth,

With books and linen in a muckle trunk,

He went his way to college ; and we sat,

Mysie and me, in weary darkness here ;

For tho' the younger bairns were still about,

It seem'd our hearts had gone to Edinglass

With Andrew, and were choking in the reek

Of Edinglass town.

It was a gruesome fight,
Both for oursel's at home, and for the boy,
That student life at college. Hard it was
To scrape the fees together, but beside,
The lad was young and needed meat and drink.
We sent him meal and bannocks by the train,
And country cheeses ; and with this and that,
Though sorely push'd, he throve, though now and then
With empty wame : spinning the siller out
By teaching grammar in a school at night.
Whiles he came home : weary old-farrant face
Pale from the midnight candle ; bringing home
Good news of college. Then we shook awa'
The old sad load, began to build again

62 POET A A DREW

Our airy castles, and were hopeful Time
Would heal our wounds. But, sir, they plagued me still-
Some of his ways ! When here, he spent his time
In yonder chamber, or about the woods,
And by the waterside, — and with him books
Of poetry, as of old. Mysel' could get
But little of his company or tongue ;
And when we talk'd, atweel, a kind of frost, —
My consciousness of silly ignorance,
And worse, my knowledge that the lad himsel'
Felt sorely, keenly, all my ignorant shame,
Made talk a torture out of which we crept
With burning faces. Could you understand
One who was wild as if he found a mine
Of golden guineas, when he noticed first
The soft green streaks in a snowdrop's inner leaves ?
And once again, the moonlight glimmering
Thro' watery transparent stalks of flax ?
A flower's a flower ! . . . But Andrew snooved about,
Aye finding wonders, mighty mysteries,
In things that every learless cottar kenn'd.
Now, 'twas the falling snow or murmuring rain ;
Now, 'twas the laverock singing in the sun,
And dropping slowly to the callow young ;
Now, an old tune he heard his mother lilt ;
And aye those trifles made his pallid face

POET AXDREW 63

Flush brighter, and his een flash keener far,
Than when he heard of yonder storm in France,
Or a King's death, or, if the like had been,
A City's downfall.

He was born with love
For things both great and small ; yet seem'd to prize
The small things best. To me, it seem'd indeed
The callant cared for nothing for itsel',
But for some special quality it had
To set him poetry-making, or bestow
A tearful sense he took for luxury.
He loved us, in his silent fashion, weel ;
But in our feckless ignorance we knew
'Twas when the humour seized him — with a sense
Of some queer power we had to waken up
The poetry — ay, and help him in his rhyme J
A kind of patronising tenderness,
A pitying pleasure in our Scottish speech
And homely ways, a love that made him note
Both ways and speech with the same curious joy
As fill'd him when he watch'd the birds and flowers.

He was as sore a puzzle to us then
As he had been before. It puzzled us,

64 POET ANDREW

How a big lad, down-cheek'd, almost a man,
Could pass his time in silly childish joys . . .
Until at last, a hasty letter came
From Andrew, telling he had broke awa'
From college, pack'd his things, and taken train
To London city, where he hoped (he said)
To make both fortune and a noble fame
Thro' a grand poem, carried in his trunk ;
How, after struggling on with bitter heart,
He could no longer bear to fight his way
Among the common scholars ; and the end
Bade us be hopeful, trusting God, and sure
The light of this old home would guide him still
Amid the reek of evil.

Sae it was !
We twa were less amazed than you may guess,
Though we had hoped, and fear'd, and hoped, sae long
But it was hard to bear — hard, hard, to bear !
Our castle in the clouds was gone for good ;
And as for Andrew — other lads had ta'en
The same mad path, and learn'd the bitter task
Of hunger, cold, and tears. She wept. I sat
In silence, looking on the ruffing fire,
Where streets and ghaistly faces came and went,
And London city crumbled down to crush

POET AXDREW 65

Our Andrew ; and my heart was sick and cold.

Ere long, the news across the country-side

Spread quickly, like the crowing of a cock

From farm to farm — the women talk'd it o'er

On doorsteps, o'er the garden rails ; the men

Got fu' upon it at the public-house,

And whisper'd it among the fields at work.

A cry was quickly raised from house to house,

That all the blame was mine, and canker'd een

Lookt cold upon me, as upon a kind

Of upstart. • Fie on pride ! ' the whisper said,

' The fault was Andrew's less than those who taught

His heart to look in scorn on honest work, —

Shame on them ! — but the lad, poor lad, would learn ! '

O sir, the thought of this spoil'd many a web

In yonder — tingling, tingling, in my ears,

Until I fairly threw my gloom aside,

Smiled like a man whose heart is light and young,

And with a future-kenning happy look

Threw up my chin, and bade them wait and see . . .

But, night by night, these een look'd Londonways,

And saw my laddie wandering all alone

'Mid darkness, fog, and reek, growing afar

To dark proportions and gigantic shape —

Just as the figure of a sheep-herd looms,

Awful and silent, thro' a mountain mist.

II F

66 POET ANDREW

Ye ken the rest. At first, he sent us home
Proud letters, swiftly writ, telling how folk
Now roundly call'd him ' Poet,' holding out
Bright pictures, which we smiled at wearily —
As people smile at pictures in a book,
Untrue but bonnie. Then the letters ceased,
There came a silence cold and still as frost, —
We sat and hearken'd to our beating hearts,
And pray'd as we had never pray'd before.
Then lastly, on the silence broke the news
That Andrew, far awa', was sick to death,
And, weary, weaiy of the noisy streets,
With aching head and heavy hopeless heart,
Was coming home from mist and fog and noise
To grassy lowlands and the caller air.

Twas strange, 'twas strange ! — but this, the bitter end
Of all our bonnie castles in the clouds,
Came like a tearful comfort. Love sprang up
Out of the ashes of the household fire ;
And Andrew, our own boy, seem'd nearer now
To this old dwelling and our aching hearts
Than he had ever been since he became
Wise with book-learning. With an eager pain,
I met him at the train and brought him home j
And when we met, that sunny day in hairst,

POET ANDREW 67

The ice that long had sunder'd us had thaw'd,

We met in silence, and our een were dim.

O, I can see that look of his this night !

Part pain, part tenderness — a famish'd look,

Yearning for comfort such as God the Lord

Puts into parents' een. I brought him here.

Gently we set him here beside the fire,

And spake few words, and hush'd the noisy house ;

Then eyed his hollow cheeks and lustrous een,

His clammy hueless brow and faded hands,

Blue-vein'd and white like lily-flowers. The wife

Forgot the sickness of his face, and moved

With light and happy footstep but and ben,

As though she welcomed to a merry feast

A happy guest. In time, out came the truth :

Andrew was dying : in his lungs the dust

Of cities stole unseen, and burn'd like fire.

Too late for doctor's skill, tho' doctor's skill

We had in plenty ; but the ill had ta'en

Too sure a grip. Andrew was dying, dying ;

The dazzling dream had melted like a mist

The sunlight feeds on : all remaining now

Was Andrew, bare and barren of his pride,

Stark of conceit, a weel-beloved child,

Helpless to help himsel', and dearer thus,

68 IOET ANDRE IV

As when his yaumer * — like the corn-craik's cry-
Heard in a field of wheat at dead o' night —
Brake on the hearkening darkness of the bield.

And as he nearer grew to God the Lord,
Nearer and dearer day by day he grew
To Mysie and myseF — our own to love,
The world's no longer. For the first last time,
We twa, the lad and I, could sit and crack
With open hearts — free-spoken, at our ease ;
I seem'd to know as muckle then as he,
Because I was sae sad.

: Thus grief, sae'deep
It flow'd without a murmur, brought the balm
Which blunts the edge of worldly sense and makes
Old people weans again. In this sad time,
We never troubled at his childish ways;
We seem'd to share his pleasure when he sat
List'ning to birds upon the eaves ; we felt
Small wonder when we found him weeping o'er
His old torn books of pencill'd thoughts and verse ;
And if, outbye, I saw a bonnie flower,
I pluck'd it carefully and bore it home

* ' Yaumer, ' a child's cry.

POET ANDREW 69

To my sick boy. To me, it somehow seem'd

His care for lovely earthly things had changed —

Changed from the curious love it once had been,

Grown larger, sadder, holier, peacefuller ;

And though he never lost the luxury

Of loving beauteous things for poetry's sake,

His heart was God the Lord's, and he was calm.

Death came to lengthen out his solemn thoughts

Like shadows from the sunset. So no more

We wonder'd. What is folly in a lad

Healthy and heartsome, one with work to do,

Befits the freedom of a dying man. . . .

Mother, who chided loud the idle lad

Of old, now sat her sadly by his side,

And read from out the Bible soft and low,

Or lilted lowly, keeking in his face,

The old Scots songs that made his een so dim.

I went about my daily work as one

Who waits to hear a knocking at the door,

Ere Death creeps in and shadows those that watch ;

And seated here at e'en i' the ingleside,

I watch'd the pictures in the fire and smoked

My pipe in silence ; for my head was fu'

Of many rhymes the lad had made of old

(Rhymes I had read in secret, as I said),

No one of which I minde J till they came

70 POET ANDREW

Unsummon'd, murmuring about my ears
Like bees among the leaves.

The end drew near.
Came Winter moaning, and the Doctor said
That Andrew could not live to see the Spring ;
And day by day, while frost was hard at work,
The lad grew weaker, paler, and the blood
Came redder from the lung. One Sabbath day —
The last of winter, for the caller air
Was drawing sweetness from the barks of trees —
When down the lane, I saw to my surprise
A snowdrop blooming underneath a birk,
And gladly pluckt the flower to carry home
To Andrew. Ere I reach'd the bield, the air
Was thick wi' snow, and ben in yonder room
I found him, mother seated at his side,
Drawn to the window in the old arm-chair,
Gazing wi' lustrous een and sickly cheek
Out on the shower, that waver'd softly down
In glistening siller glamour. Saying nought,
Into his hand I put the year's first flower,
And turn'd awa' to hide my face ; and he . . .
. . . He smiled . . . and at the smile, I knew not why,
It swam upon us, in a frosty pain,
The end was come at last, at last, and Death

POET ANDREW 71

Was creeping ben, his shadow on our hearts.
We gazed on Andrew, call'd him by his name,
And touch'd him softly . . . and he lay awhile,
His een upon the snow, in a dark dream,
Yet neither heard nor saw ; but suddenly,
He shook awa' the vision wi' a smile,
Raised lustrous een, still smiling, to the sky,
Next upon us, then dropt them to the flower
That trembled in his hand, and murmur'd low,
Like one that gladly murmurs to himsel' —
' Out of the Snow, the Snowdrop — out of Death
Comes Life;' then closed his eyes and made a moan,
And never spake another word again.*

* The speaker in this poem lived, as I have painted him, and died
after the poem was written. It was from the living intercourse of
such as he that I first began to awaken to the sense of the Divine
life at work in the common world ; and therefore, as I painted him
in this early sketch, I leave him — adding only this last word of
sympathy and reverence. The artistic quality of the sketch is
another matter. It was written (with ' Willie Baird,' 'John,' and
others easily identified) in or about my twentieth year, when I tried
with somewhat mistaken conceptions to disregard all adornment and
rely on simple realistic substance. Strong earnestness in the
artists is the sole justification of pictures so hard in outline ; and
whatever I lacked, I was terribly in earnest. — R. B.

72

LIZ

(London)

The crimson light of sunset falls

Through the gray shadow of the murmuring rain,
And creeping o'er the housetops crawls

Through the black smoke upon the broken pane,
Steals to the straw on which she lies,

And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks,
Her sun-tann'd neck, her glistening eyes, —

While faintly, sadly, fitfully she speaks.
But when it is no longer light,

The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark,
And dies upon the breast of Night,

Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark.

I
Hey, rain, rain, rain !

It patters down the glass, and on the sill,
And splashes in the pools along the lane —

Then gives a kind of shiver, and is stil :

One likes to hear it, though, when one is ill.
Rain, rain !

Hey, how it pours and pours !
Rain, rain, rain !

A dismal day for poor girls out-o'-doors !

LIZ 73

II
Ah, don't ! That sort of comfort makes me cry,
And, Parson, since I'm bad, I want to die.
The roaring of the street,
The tramp of feet,
The sobbing of the rain,
Bring nought but pain ;
And whether it be light,
Or dark dead night,
Wherever I may be, I hear them plain !
I'm lost and weak, and can no longer bear
To wander here and there —

As useless as a stone — tired out — and sick !
So that they put me down to slumber quick,
It does not matter where.
No one will miss me ; all will hurry by,
And never cast a thought on one so low ;
Fine gentlemen miss ladies when they go,
But folk care nought for such a thing as I.

in
'Tis bad, I know, to talk like that — too bad !

Joe, though he's often hard, is strong and true —

And there's the baby, too ! —
But I'm so tired and sad.
I'm glad it was a boy, sir, very glad.

74 LIZ

A man can fight along, can say his say,

Is not look'd down upon, holds up his head,
And, at a push, can always earn his bread :
Men have the best of it, in many a way.
But ah ! 'tis hard indeed for girls to keep
Decent and honest, tramping in the town, —
Their best but bad — made light of — beaten down-
Wearying ever, wearying for sleep.
If they grow hard, go wrong, from bad to badder,
Why, Parson, dear, they're happier being blind :
They get no thanks for being good and kind —
The better that they are, they feel the sadder !

IV

Nineteen ! nineteen !

Only nineteen, and yet so old, so old ; —
I feel like fifty, Parson — I have been

So wicked, I suppose, and life's so cold !
Ah, cruel are the wind, and rain, and snow,

And I've been out for years among them all :

I scarce remember being weak and small
Like baby there — it was so long ago.
It does not seem that I was born. I woke,

One day, long, long ago, in a dark room,
And saw the housetops round me in the smoke,

And, leaning out, look'd down into the gloom,

LIZ 75

Saw deep black pits, blank walls, and broken panes,

And eyes, behind the panes, that flash'd at me,
And heard an awful roaring, from the lanes,

Of folk I could not see ;
Then, while I look'd and listen'd in a dream,

I turn'd my eyes upon the housetops gray,
And saw, between the smoky roofs, a gleam

Of silver water, winding far away.
That was the River. Cool and smooth and deep,

It glided to the sound o' folk below,

Dazzling my eyes, till they began to grow
Dusty and dim with sleep.
Oh, sleepily I stood, and gazed, and hearken'd !

And saw a strange, bright light, that slowly fled,

Shine through the smoky mist, and stain it red,
And suddenly the water flash'd, — then darken'd ;
And for a little time, though I gazed on,
The river and the sleepy light were gone ;
But suddenly, over the roofs there lightened

A pale, strange brightness out of heaven shed,
And, with a sweep that made me sick and frighten'd,

The yellow Moon roll'd up above my head ; —
And down below me roar'd the noise o' trade,
And ah ! I felt alive, and was afraid,

And cold, and hungry, crying out for bread.

76 LIZ

v
All that is like a dream. It don't seem true *

Father was gone, and mother left, you see,

To work for little brother Ned and me ;
And up among the gloomy roofs we grew, —
Lock'd in full oft, lest we should wander out,

With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat,
While mother char'd for poor folk round about,

Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street.
Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair,
To make the time pass happily up there :
A steamboat going past upon the tide,

A pigeon lighting on the roof close by,

The sparrows teaching little ones to fly,
The small white moving clouds, that we espied,

And thought were living, in the bit of sky —

With sights like these right glad were Ned and I ;
And then, we loved to hear the soft rain calling,

Pattering, pattering, upon the tiles,
And it was fine to see the still snow falling,

Making the housetops white for miles on miles,
And catch it in our little hands in play,
And laugh to feel it melt and slip away !
But I was six, and Ned was only three,
And thinner, weaker, wearier than me ;

And one cold day, in winter time, when mother

LIZ 77

Had gone away into the snow, and we

Sat close for warmth and cuddled one another,
He put his little head upon my knee,
And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb,

But look'd quite strange and old ;
And when I shook him, kiss'd him, spoke to him,

He smiled, and grew so cold.
Then I was frighten'd, and cried out, and none

Could hear me ; but I sat and nursed his head,
Watching the whiten'd window, while the Sun

Peep'd in upon his face, and made it red.
And I began to sob j — till mother came,
Knelt down, and scream'd, and named the good God's
name,
And told me he was dead.
And when she put his night-gown on, and, weeping,

Placed him among the rags upon his bed,
I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping,

And took his little hand, and felt no fear.

But when the place grew gray and cold and drear,
And the round Moon over the roofs came creeping,

And put a silver shade

All round the chilly bed where he was laid,

I cried, and was afraid.

78 LIZ

VI

Ah, yes, it's like a dream ; for time pass'd by,

And I went out into the smoky air,
Fruit-selling, Parson — trudging, wet or dry —

Winter and summer — weary, cold, and bare.
And when old mother laid her down to die,
And parish buried her, I did not cry,

And hardly seem'd to care ;
I was too hungry, and too dull ; beside,

The roar o' streets had made me dry as dust —
It took me all my time, howe'er I tried,

To keep my limbs alive and earn a crust.
I had no time for weeping.

And when I was not out amid the roar,

Or standing frozen at the playhouse door,
Why, I was lying on my straw, and sleeping.
Ah, pence were hard to gain !
Some girls were pretty, too, but I was plain :
Fine ladies never stopp'd and look'd and smiled,

And gave me money for my face's sake.
Thai made me hard and angry when a child j

But now it thrills my heart, and makes it ache !
The pretty ones, poor things, what could they do,

Fighting and starving in the wicked town,

But go from bad to badder — down, down, down,-
Being so poor, and yet so pretty, too ?

LIZ 79

Never could bear the like of that — ah, no !
Better have starved outright than gone so low !

VII

But I've no call to boast. I might have been
As wicked, Parson dear, in my distress,

But for your friend — you know the one I mean ? —
The tall, pale lady, in the mourning dress.

Though we were cold at first, that wore away —
She was so mild and young,
And had so soft a tongue,

And eyes to sweeten what she loved to say.

She never seem'd to scorn me — no, not she ;

And (what was best) she seem'd as sad as me !

Not one of those that make a girl feel base,

And call her names, and talk of her disgrace,

And frighten one with thoughts of flaming hell,
And fierce Lord God, with black and angry brow ;

But soft and mild, and sensible as well ;
And oh, I loved her, and I love her now !

She did me good for many and many a day —
More good than pence could ever do, I swear,
For she was poor, with little pence to spare —

Learn'd me to read, and quit low words, and pray.

And, Parson, though I never understood

How such a life as mine was meant for good,

8o LIZ

And could not guess what one so poor and low-
Would do in that sweet place of which she spoke,

And could not feel that God would let me go
Into so bright a land with gentlefolk,

I liked to hear her talk of such a place,
And thought of all the angels she was best,

Because her soft voice soothed me, and her face
Made my words gentle, put my heart at rest.

VIII

Ah, sir ! 'twas very lonesome. Night and day,

Save when the lady came, I was alone, —

Moved on and hunted through the streets of stone,
And even in dreams afraid to rest or stay.
Then, other girls had lads to work and strive for ;

I envied them, and did not know 'twas wrong,

And often, very often, used to long
For some one / could like and keep alive for.
Marry ? Not they !

They can't afford to be so good, you know ;
But many of them, though they step astray,

Indeed don't mean to sin so much, or go
Against what's decent. Only — 'tis their way.
And many might do worse than that, may be,

If they had ne'er a one to fill a thought —
It sounds half wicked, but poor girls like me

Must sin a little, to be good in aught.

LIZ 8 1

IX.

So I was glad when I began to see

Joe Purvis fancied me ;

And when, one night, he took me to the play,
Over on Surrey side, and offer'd fair
That we should take a little room and share

Our earnings, why, I could not answer ' Nay ! '

And that 's a year ago ; and though I 'm bad,
I 've been as true to Joe as girl could be.

I don't complain a bit of Joe, dear lad,
Joe never, never meant but well to me.

And we have had as fair a time, I think,

As one could hope, since we are both so low.

Joe likes me — never gave me push or blow,
When sober : only, he was wild in drink.
But then we don't mind beating when a man

Is angry, if he likes us and keeps straight,
Works for his bread, and does the best he can ; —

Tis being left and slighted that we hate.

x

And so the baby 's come, and I shall die !
And though 'tis hard to leave poor baby here,
Where folk will think him bad, and all 's so drear,

The great Lord God knows better far than I.

II G

82 LIZ

Ah, don't ! — 'tis kindly, but it pains me so !

You say I 'm wicked, and I want to go !

' God's kingdom,' Parson dear ? Ah nay, ah nay !

That must be like the country — which I fear :
I saw the country once, one summer day,

And I would rather die in London here !

XI

For I was sick of hunger, cold, and strife,

And took a sudden fancy in my head

To try the country, and to earn my bread
Out among fields, where I had heard one's life
Was easier and brighter. So, that day,
I took my basket up and stole away,
Just after sunrise. As I went along,

Trembling and loath to leave the busy place,
I felt that I was doing something wrong,

And fear'd to look policemen in the face.
And all was dim : the streets were gray and wet

After a rainy night : and all was still ;

I held my shawl around me with a chill,
And dropt my eyes from every face I met ;
Until the streets began to fade, the road

Grew fresh and clean and wide,
Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode,

And gardens full of flowers, on every side.
That made me walk the quicker — on, on, on —

LIZ S3

As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes,

And all at once I saw, to my surprise,
The houses of the gentlefolk were gone ;
And I was standing still,
Shading my face, upon a high green hill,

And the bright sun was blazing,
And all the blue above me seem'd to melt

To burning, flashing gold, while I was gazing
On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt.

XII

I '11 ne'er forget that day. All was so bright

And strange. Upon the grass around my feet
The rain had hung a million drops of light ;

The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet,
It seem'd a sin to breathe it. All around

Were hills and fields and trees that trembled through

A burning, blazing fire of gold and blue ;
And there was not a sound,

Save a bird singing, singing, in the skies,
And the soft wind, that ran along the ground,

And blew so sweetly on my lips and eyes.
Then, with my heavy hand upon my chest,

Because the bright air pain'd me, trembling, sighing,
I stole into a dewy field to rest ;

And oh, the green, green grass where I was lying
G 2

84 LIZ

Was fresh and living — and the bird sang loud,
Out of a golden cloud —

And I was looking up at him, and crying !

How swift the hours slipt on ! — and by and by

The sun grew red, big shadows fill'd the sky,
The air grew damp with dew,
And the dark night was coming down, I knew.

Well, I was more afraid than ever, then,

And felt that I should die in such a place, —
So back to London town I. turn'd my face,

And crept into the cheerful streets again ;

And when I breathed the smoke and heard the roar,
Why, I was better, for in London here
My heart was busy, and I felt no fear.

I never saw the country any more.

And I have stay'd in London, well or ill —
I would not stay out yonder if I could,
For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good —

I could not bear a life so bright and still.

All that I want is sleep,

Under the flags and stones, so deep, so deep !

God won't be hard on one so mean, but He,
Perhaps, will let a tired girl slumber sound
There in the deep cold darkness under ground ;

LIZ 85

And I shall waken up in time, may be,
Better and stronger, not afraid to see

The burning Light that folds Him round and round !

XIV

See ! there 's the sunset creeping through the pane —

How cool and moist it looks amid the iain !

I like to hear the splashing of the drops

On the house-tops,

And the loud humming of the folk that go

Along the streets below !

I like the smoke and roar — I love them yet —

They seem to still one's cares . . .

There 's Joe ! I hear his foot upon the stairs ! —
Poor lad, he must be wet !
He will be angry, like enough, to find

Another little life to clothe and keep.
But show him baby, Parson — speak him kind —

And tell him Doctor thinks I 'm going to sleep.
A hard, hard life is his ! He need be strong
And rough, to earn his bread and get along.
I think he will be sorry when I go,

And leave the little one and him behind.

I hope he '11 see another to his mind,
To keep him straight and tidy. Poor old Joe !

TOM DUNSTAN; OR, THE PO LI II CI AN

' How long, O Lord, how long ? '

I
Now poor Tom Dunstan's cold,

Our shop is duller ;
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost the old

Red-republican colour !
Though he was sickly and thin,

'Twas a sight to see his face, —
While, sick of the country's sin,
With bang of the fist, and chin

Thrust out, he argued the case !
He prophesied men should be free !

And the money-bags be bled !
' She 's coming, she 's coming ! ' said he ;
' Courage, boys ! wait and see !

Freedom 's ahead ! '

TOM DUNSTAN; OR, THE POLITICIAN S7

11
All day we sat in the heat,

Like spiders spinning,
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While old Moses on his seat

Sat greasily grinning ;
And here Tom said his say,

And prophesied Tyranny's death ;
And the tallow burnt all day,
And we stitch'd and stitch'd away

In the thick smoke of our breath.
Weary,' weary were we,

Our hearts as heavy as lead ;
But ' Patience ! she's coming ! ' said he ;
' Courage, boys ! wait and see 1

Freedom 's ahead ! '

111

And at night, when we took here
The rest allowed to us,

The Paper came, with the beer,

And Tom read, sharp and clear,
The news out loud to us ;

And then, in his witty way,
He threw the jests about :

88 TOM DUNSTAN; OR

The cutting things he 'd say
Of the wealthy and the gay !

How he tum'd them inside out !
And it made our breath more free

To hearken to what he said —
1 She 's coming ! she 's coming '. ' said he ;
' Courage, boys ! wait and see !

Freedom 's ahead '. '

IV

But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer,

Would mutter, ' Master !
If Freedom means to appear,
I think she might step here

A little faster ! '
Then, 'twas fine to see Tom flame,

And argue, and prove, and preach,
Till Jack was silent for shame, —
Or a fit of coughing came

0'" sudden, to spoil Tom's speech.
Ah ! Tom had the eyes to see

When Tyranny should be sped :
' She 's coming ! she 's coming ! ' said he ;
1 Courage, boys ! wait and see !

Freedom 's ahead ! '

THE POLITICIAN 89

V
But Tom was little and weak,

The hard hours shook him ;
Hollower grew his cheek,
And when he began to speak

The coughing took him.
Ere long the cheery sound

Of his chat among us ceased,
And we made a purse, all round,

That he might not starve, at least.
His pain was sorry to see,

Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
' She 's coming, in spite of me !
Courage, and wait ! ' cried he ;

' Freedom 's ahead ! '

VI

A little before he died,

To see his passion !
1 Bring me a Paper ! ' he cried,
And then to study it tried,

In his old sharp fashion ;
And with eyeballs glittering,

His look on me he bent,
And said that savage thing

Of the Lords o' the Parliament.

90 TOM DUNSTAN; OR,

Then, dying, smiling on me,

' What matter if one be dead ?
She 's coming at last ! ' said he ;
' Courage, boy ! wait and see !
Freedom 's ahead V

VII

Ay, now Tom Dunstan 's cold,

The shop feels duller ;
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost the old

Red-republican colour.
But we see a figure gray,

And we hear a voice of death,
And the tallow burns all day,
And we stitch and stitch away

In the thick smoke of our breath ;
A y, while in the dark sit we,

Tom seems to call from the dead—
' She 's coming ! she 's coming ! ' says he ;
' Courage, boys ! wait and see !

Freedom 's ahead ! '

How long, O Lord ! how long
Must thy Handmaid linger —

THE rOLITICIAX 91

She who shall right the wrong,
Make the poor sufferer strong ?

Sweet morrow, bring her !
Hasten her over the sea,

O Lord ! ere Hope be fled !
Bring her to men and to me ! . . .
O Slave, pray still on thy knee,
' Freedom 's ahead!

92

OMURTOGH

(Ireland, 18 — )
' It 's a sight to see a bold man die ! '

To-night we drink but a sorrowful cup . .
Hush ! silence ! and fill your glasses up.
Christ be with us ! Hold out and say :
' Here 's to the Boy that died this day ! '

Wasn't he bold as the boldest here ?
Red coat or black did he ever fear ?
With the bite and the drop, too, ever free ?
He died like a man. ... I was there to see !

The gallows was black, our cheeks were white,
All underneath in the morning light ;
The bell ceased tolling swift as thought,
And out the murdered Boy was brought.

OWVRTOGH 93

There he stood in the daylight dim,
With a Priest on either side of him ;
Each Priest look'd white as he held his book,
But the man between had a brighter look !

Over the faces below his feet
His gray eye gleam'd so keen and fleet :
He saw us looking ; he smiled his last . . .
He couldn't wave, he was pinioned fast.

This was more than one could bear,
For the wench who loved him was with us there ;
She stood in the rain with her dripping shawl
Over her head, for to see it all.

But when she met the Boy's last look,
Her lips went white, she turned and shook ;
She didn't scream, she didn't groan,
But down she dropt as dead as stone.

He saw the stir in the crowd beneath,
And I saw him tremble and set his teeth ;
But the hangman came with a knavish grace
And drew the nightcap over his face.

94 CMURTOGH

Then I saw the priests, who still stood near,
Pray faster and faster to hide their fear ;
They closed their eyes, I closed mine too,
And the deed was over before I knew.

The crowd that stood all round of me
Gave one dark plunge like a troubled sea ;
And I knew by that the deed was done,
And I opened my eyes and saw the sun.

The gallows was black, the sun was white,
There he hung, half hid from sight ;
The sport was over, the talk grew loud,
And they sold their wares to the mighty crowd.

We walked away with our hearts full sore,
And we met a hawker before a door,
With a string of papers an arm's-length long,
A dying speech and a gallows song.

It bade all people of poor estate

Beware of O'Murtogh's evil fate ;

It told how in old Ireland's name

He had done red murther and come to shame.

OWURTOGH 95

Never a word was sung or said
Ot the murder'd mother, a ditch her bed,
Who died with her new-born babe that night,
While the blessed cabin was burning bright.

Nought was said of the years of pain,
The starving stomach, the dizzy brain,
The years of sorrow and want and toil,
And the murdering rent for the bit of soil.

Nothing was said of the murther done
On man and woman and little one,
Of the bitter sorrow and daily smart,
Till he put cold lead in the factor's heart.

But many a word had the speech beside :
How he repented before he died ;
How, brought to sense by the sad event,
He prayed for the Queen and the Parliament !

What did we do, and mighty quick,
But tickle that hawker's brains with a stick ;
And to pieces small we tore his flam,
And left him quiet as any lamb !

96 &MURTOGH

Pass round your glasses ! now lift them up,
Powers above, 'tis a bitter cup !
Christ be with us ! Hold out and say :
' Here 's to the Boy that died this day ! '

Here 's his health ! — for bold he died ;
Here 's his health ! — and it 's drunk in pride
The finest sight beneath the sky
Is to see how bravely a man can die.

97

THE BOOKWORM

With spectacles upon his nose,

He shuffles up and down ;
Of antique fashion are his clothes,

His napless hat is brown.
A mighty watch, of silver wrought,

Keeps time in sun or rain
To the dull ticking of the thought

Within his dusty brain.

To see him at the bookstall stand

And bargain for the prize,
With the odd sixpence in his hand

And greed in his gray eyes !
Then, conquering, grasp the book half blind,

And take the homeward track,
For fear the man should change his mind,

And want the bargain back !

9S THE BOOKWORM

The waves of life about him beat,

He scarcely lifts his gaze,
He hears within the crowded street

The wash of ancient days.
If ever his short-sighted eyes

Look forward, he can see
Vistas of dusty Libraries

Prolonged eternally.

But think not as he walks along

His brain is dead and cold ;
His soul is thinking in the tongue

Which Plato spake of old ;
And while some grinning cabman sees

His quaint shape with a jeer,
He smiles, — for Aristophanes

Is joking in his ear.

Around him stretch Athenian walks,

And strange shapes under trees ;
He pauses in a dream and talks

Great speech, with Socrates.
Then, as the fancy fails — still mesh'd

In thoughts that go and come —
Feels in his pouch, and is refresh'd

At touch of some old tome.

THE BOOKWORM

The mighty world of humankind

Is as a shadow dim,
He walks thro' life like one half blind,

And all looks dark to him ;
But put his nose to leaves antique,

And hold before his sight
Some press'd and withered flowers of Greek,

And all is life and light.

A blessing on his hair so gray,

And coat of dingy brown !
May bargains bless him every day,

As he goes up and down ;
Long may the bookstall-keeper's face,

In dull times, smile again,
To see him round with shuffling pace

The corner of the lane !

A good old Ragpicker is he,

Who, following morn and eve
The quick feet of Humanity,

Searches the dust they leave.
He pokes the dust, he sifts with care,

He searches close and deep ;
Proud to discover, here and there,

A treasure in the heap !
H 2

99

EDWARD CROWHURST.

Potts, ill his dusty chamber, writes,

A dilettante lord to please :
A ray of country sunshine lights

The foggy region ruled by these.
Flock kind advisers, critics sage,

To damn the simple country clown, —
The mud of English patronage

Grows round his feet, and keeps him down.

' This little mean-faced duodecimo,
" Poems by Edward Crowhurst, Labourer,"
This coarsely-printed little book of rhymes,
Contains within the goodliest gift of song
The gods have graced us with for many a day
A crystal clearness, as of running brooks,
A music, as of green boughs murmuring,
A peeping of fresh thoughts in shady places
Like violets new-blown, a gleam of dewdrops,
A sober, settled, greenness of repose, —
And lying over all, in level beams,

EDWARD CROWIIURST 101

Transparent, sweet, and unmistakable,
The light that never was on sea or land.

' Let all the greater and the lesser lights

Regard these lines upon a Wood in Spring,

Or those which follow, call'd " The Barley- Bird,"

And then regard their laurels. Melody

More sweet was never blown through pastoral pipe

In Britain, since the Scottish Ramsay died.

Nor let the squeamish dreamers of our time,

Our rainbow bards, despise such song as this,

Wealthy in images the poor man knows,

And household chords that make the women weep.

Simply yet subtly, Edward Crowhurst works :

Singing of lowly truths and homely things —

Death snatching up a cotter's child at play,

Light flashing from far worlds on dying eyes

That never saw beyond their native fields,

The pathos and the power of common life ;

And while, perchance, his deeper vein runs on

Less heeded, by a random touch is waken'd

A scent, a flower-tint, a wave of wings,

A sense of rustling boughs and running brooks,

Touch'd by whose spell the soul is stirr'd, and eyes

Gaze on the dark world round them, and are dim.

ED WARD CR 0 WHURST

' This Mister Crowhurst is a poor young man,

Uneducated, doom'd to earn his bread

By working daily at the plough \ and yet,

Sometimes in midst of toil, sometimes at night,

Whenever he could snatch a little time,

Hath written down (he taught himself to write ! )

His simple verses. Is it meet, we ask,

A nature so superb should languish thus ?

Nay, he deserves, if ever man deserved,

The succour of the rich and high in place,

The opportunity to labour less,

And use those truly wondrous gifts of his

In modest competence ; and therewithal,

Kindness, encouragement, and good advice,

Such as the cultured give. Even now, we hear,

A certain sum of money is subscribed,

Enough to furnish well his present needs.

Among the donors, named for honour here,

We note the noble Earl of Chremiton,

Lord Phidippus, Lord Gnathos, Lady Dee,

Sir Charles Toroon. But more must yet be done.

We dare to put the case on public grounds,

Since he who writes so nobly is, indeed,

A public benefactor, — with a claim

On all who love to listen and to look,

When the fresh Saxon Muse, in homespun gear,

EDWARD CR0WHURS1 ioj

The free breeze blowing back her loosen'd hair,
Wanders barefooted through the dewy lanes
And sings aloud, while all the valleys ring
For pleasure, and the echoes of the hills
Make sweet accord ! '

— Conservative Review,

104

ED WARD CRO WHURS7

AFTER TEN YEARS

A homely matron, who has once been fair,

In quiet suffering old, yet young in years ;
Soft threads of silver in her auburn hair,

And lines around the eyes that tell of tears ;
But on her face there trembles peaceful light,
That seems a smile, and yet is far less bright, —
To tell of watchings in the shade and sun,
And melancholy duty sweetly done.

What, take away my Teddy ? shut him up

Between stone walls, as if he were a thief ?

You freeze my blood to talk of such a thing !

Why, these green fields where my old man was born,

The river, and the woodland, and the lanes,

Are all that keep him living : he was ever

O'er fond of things like those ; and now, you see,

Is fonder of them than he was before,

Because he thinks so little else is left.

EDWARD CROWHURST 105

Mad ? He 's a baby ! Would not hurt a fly !

Can manage him as easy as our girl !

And though he was a poet and went wrong,

He could not help his failings. Ah, True Heart,

I love him all the deeper and the dearer !

I would not lose him for the whole wide world !

Tt came through working lonely in the fields,
And growing shy of cheerful company,
And worrying his wits with idle things
He saw and heard when quiet out o' doors.
For long ere we were wedded, all the place
Knew Teddy's ways : how mad he was for flowers
And singing- birds ; how often at the plough
He used to idle, holding up his head
And looking at the clouds ; what curious stuff
He used to say about the ways of things ;
I low week-days he was never company,
Nor tidy on a Sunday. Even then
Folk call'd him stupid : so did I myself,
At first, before his sheepishness wore off;
And then, why I was frighten'd for a time
To find how wondrous brightly he could look
And talk, when with a girl, and no one by.
Right soon he stole this heart of mine away,
So cunningly I scarcely guess'd 'twas gone,

106 EDWARD CROWHURST

But found my tongue at work before I knew.
Sounding his praises. Mother shook her head ;
But soon it was the common country talk
That he and I were courting.

After that
Some of his sayings and his doings still
Seem'd foolish, but I used to laugh and say,
' Wait till we many ! I shall make him change ! '
And it was pleasant walking after dark,
In summer, wandering up and down the lanes,
And heark'ning to his talk ; and pleasant, too,
In winter, to sit cuddling by the fire,
And whispering to the quiet firelight sound
And the slow ticking of the clock. Ere long,
I grew to care for many things he loved.
He knew the names of trees, and birds, and flowers,
Their races and their seasons ; named the stars,
Their comings and their goings ; and could tell
Strange truths about the manners of the clouds.
Set him before a hedgerow in a lane,
And he was happy all alone for hours.
The woods and fields were full of joy to him,
And wonders, and fine meanings ever new.
How, at the bottom of the wayside well,
The foul toad lies and purifies the drink ;

EDWARD CROWHURST 107

I [ow twice a year red robin sings a song,

( )nce when the orchis blows its bells in spring,

< tace when the gold is on the slanted sheaves ;

How late at night the common nightingale

Comes in the season of the barley-sowing,

Silently builds her nest among the boughs,

And then sings out just as the roses blow,

And it is sweet and pleasant in the moon.

Why, half his courtship lay in talk like that,

And, oh ! the way he talk'd fill'd high my heart

With pleasure ; but, o' quiet winter nights,

With wild bright eyes and voice that broke for joy,

He often read aloud from books of songs ;

One I remember, that I liked the best,

A book of pictures and of love-tales, call'd

' The Seasons.' I was young, and did not think :

I only felt 'twas fine. Yet now and then

I noticed more, and took a sober fit,

And tried to make him tidy in his clothes,

And could not, though I tried; and used to sigh

When mother mutter'd hints, as mothers will,

That he should work more hard and look ahead,

And save to furnish out a house for me. . . .

For Teddy smiled, poor lad, and work'd more hard,

But save . . . not he ! Instead of laying by,

Making a nest to rear the young ones in.

108 EDWARD CR01VHURS7

He spent his hard-won cash in buying books, —

Much dusty lumber, torn and black and old,

Long sheets of ballads, bundles of old rhyme, —

And read them, one by one, at home o' nights,

Or out aloud to me, or at the plough.

I chid at first, but quickly held my tongue,

Because he look'd so grieved ; and once he said,

With broken voice and dew-light in his eyes,

' Lass, I 'm a puzzle to myself and you,

But take away the books, and I should die ! '

His back went bare for books, his stomach starved

To buy them, — nay, he pawn'd his jacket once,

To get a dreary string of solemn stuff

All about Eve and Adam. More and more

He slacken'd at his toil ; and soon the lad,

Who turn'd the cleanest furrow, when he pleased,

Of all the ploughmen, let his work go spoil,

And fairly led an idle, thriftless life

In the green woods and on the river side.

And then I found that he himself made verse
In secret, — verse about the birds and flowers.
Songs about lovers, rhymes about the stars,
Tales of queer doings in the village here, —
All writ on scraps of paper out-o'-doors,
And hidden in an old tin coffee-; ot

EDWARD CROWHURST 109

Where he had kept his cash. The first I heard

Was just a song all about him and me,

And cuddling in the kitchen while 'twas snowing ;

He read it to me, blushing like a girl,

And I was pleased, and laugh'd, and thought it fine,

And wonder'd where he learned to make the words

Jingle so sweetly. Then he read me more,

Some that I liked, some that I fancied poor ;

And, last of all, one morn in harvest-time,

When all the men were working in the fields,

And he was nearly ragged, out it came —

' They 're reaping corn, and corn brings gold, my lass,

But I will reap gold too, and fame beside, —

I'm going to print a Book ! '

I thought him mad !
The words seem'd dreadful — such a fool was I ;
And I was puzzled more when he explain'd :
That he had sent some verses by the post
To a rich man who lived by selling songs
Yonder in London city ; that for months
No answer came, and Teddy strain'd his eyes
Into the clouds for comfort ; that at last
There came a letter full of wondrous praise
From the great man in London, offering
Poor Teddy, if he sent him verse enough

to EDWARD CROWHURST

To make a pretty little printed book,

To value it in money. Till I die,

I 11 ne'er forget the light on Teddy's face —

The light, the glory, and the wonder there :

He laugh'd, and read the letter out aloud,

He leapt, and laugh'd, and kiss'd me o'er and o'er,

And then he read the letter o'er again,

And then turn'd pale, and sank into a chair,

And hid his bright face in his hands, and cried.

Bewilder'd though I was, my heart was glad
To see his happy looks, and pleased beside
That fine folk call'd him clever. I said nought
To mother — for I knew her ways too well —
But waited. Soon came other wondrous news :
The scraps of verse had ail been copied out
On fine white sheets, written in Teddy's hand,
Big, round, and clear, like print ; and word had come
That they were read and praised by other fulk,
Friends of the man in London. Last of all,
One night, when I was ironing the clothes,
And mother, knitting, sat beside the fire,
In Teddy came — as bright and fresh and gay
As a cock starling hopping from the nest
On May-day ; and with laughing eyes he cried,
1 Well, mother, when are Bess and I to wed ? '

EDWARD CR01VI1URST \\\

1 Wed ? ' mother snapt, as sour as buttermilk,
• Wed ? when the birds swim, and the fishes fly,
And the green trees grow bread and cheese and butter
For lazy loons that lie beneath and yawn ! '
Then Teddy laugh'd aloud, and when I frown'd
And shook my head to warn him, laugh'd the more ;
And, drawing out his leathern ploughman's pouch,
1 See, mother, see ! ' he cried, — and in her lap
Pour'd thirty golden guineas !

At the first,
I scream'd, and mother look'd afraid to touch
The glittering gold, — and plain enough she said
The gold, she guess'd, was scarcely honest gain ;
Then Teddy told her all about his book,
And how those golden guineas were the price
The great rich man in London put upon 't.
She shook her head the more ; and when he read
The great man's letter, with its words of praise,
Look'd puzzled most of all ; and in a dream,
Feeling the gold with her thin hand, she sat,
While Teddy, proud dew sparkling in his eyes,
Show'd me in print the little song he made
Of cuddling in the kitchen while 'twas snowing, —
' And, Bess,' he cried, ' the gold will stock a house,
But little 'tis I care about the gold :
This bit of printed verse is sweeter far

2 EDWARD CR0WHURS1

Than all the shining wealth of all the world ! '

And lifted up the paper to Ins mouth

And kiss'd the print, then held it out at length

To look upon 't with sparkling, happy eyes,

And folded it and put it in his pouch,

As tenderly and carefully, I swear,

As if it were a note upon a bank

For wealth untold. 'Why linger o'er the tale ? —

Though now my poor old man is weak and ill,

Sweet is the telling of his happy time.

The money stock'd a house, and in a month

We two were man and wife.

Teddy was proud
And happy, — busy finishing the book
That was his heart's delight ; and as for me,
My thoughts were merry as a running brook,
For Teddy seem'd a wise man after all ;
And it was spring-time, and our little home
Was hung with white clematis, porch and wall,
And wall-flower, candituft, and London pride,
All shining round a lilac bush in bloom,
Sweeten'd the little square of garden ground ;
And cozy as a finch's mossy nest
Was all within : the little sleeping-room
And red-tiled kitchen ; and, made snug and fine

EDWARD CROWHURST 113

By chairs and tables cut of bran-new deal,
The little parlour, — on the mantelpiece
Field-flowers and ferns and bird's-egg necklaces,
Two pretty pictures pasted on the walls,
(The portraits of one Milton and one Burns,)
And, in the corner Teddy loved the best,
Three shelves to keep the old, black, thumb-mark'd
books.

And if my heart had fever, lest the life
Begun so well was over-bright to last,
Teddy could cheer me ; for he placed his arm
Around me, looking serious in his joy,
When we were wed three days ; and ' Bess,' he said,

I The Lord above is very kind to me ;

For He has given me this sweet place and you,

Adding the bliss of seeing soon in print

The verse I love so much.' Then, kissing me,

I I have been thinking of it all,' he said,
' Holpen a bit by lives of other folk,

Which I have read. Now, many men like me
Grow light o' head and let their labour go ;
But men can't live by writing verses, Bess.'

I Nay, nay,' cried I, ' 'twere pity if they could,
For every man would try the easier task,

And who would reap the fields or grind the corn ?

II 1

U4 EDWARD CR0WHURS7

And Teddy smiling, said, ' 'Tis so ! 'tis so !
Pride shall not puff my wits, but all the day
I will toil happily in the fields I love ;
And in the pleasant evenings 'twill be fine
To wander forth and see the world with you,
Or read out poems in the parlour here,
Or take a pen and write, for ease o' heart,
Not praise, not money.' I was glad tenfold, —
Put all my fears aside, and trusted him, —
And well he kept his word.

Yet ill at ease,
Restless and eager, Teddy waited on,
Until the night a monster parcel came
From London : twelve brown volumes, all the same,
Wide-printed, thin, and on the foremost page,
' Poems by Edward Crowhurst, Labourer.'
The happiest hour my Teddy ever knew 1
He turn'd the volumes o'er, examined each,
Counted the sheets, counted the printed leaves,
Stared at his name in print, held out the page
At arm's length, feasting with his mouth and eyes.
I wonder'd at his joy, yet, spite o' me,
I shared it. 'Tvvas so catching. The old tale !
A little thing could make my Teddy's heart
Gay as a bunch of roses, while a great

EDWARD CROIVIIURST 115

Went by unheeded like a cannon-ball.

The glowworm is a little common grub,

Vet what a pretty gleam it often sheds ;

And that same poor, small, common-looking book,

Set on our table, kept around its leaves

A light like sunshine.

When his joy grew cool,
Teddy took up a book to read it through ;
And first he show'd me, next the foremost page,
A bit of writing called the ' Author's Life,'
Made up of simple things my man had told —
How he was but a lowly labourer,
And how the green fields work'd upon his heart
To write about the pretty things he saw —
All put together by a clever man
In London. For a time he sat and read
In silence, looking happy with his eye
But suddenly he started up and groan'd,
Looking as black as bog-mud, while he flung
The book upon the table ; and I gript
His arm, and ask'd what ail'd him. ' Bess,' he said,
' The joy o' this has all gone sudden sour,
All through the cruel meddling of a fool :
The story of my life is true enough,
Despite the fine-flown things the teller sticks

n6 EDWARD CROWHURST

Around it — peacock's feathers stuck around

The nest of some plain song-bird ; but the end

Is like the garlic-flower, — looks fine at first,

But stinks on peeping nearer. Bess, my lass,

I never begg'd a penny in my life,

I sought the help of no man, but could work.

What then ? what then ? O Bess, 'tis hard, 'tis hard

They make me go a-begging, book in hand,

As if I were a gipsy of the lanes

Whistling for coppers at an alehouse door ! '

I, too, was hurt, but tried to comfort him ;
'Twas kindly meant, at least, I thought and said ;
But Teddy clench'd his teeth, and sat him down,
And wrote, not rudely, but as if in grief,
To him in London. Till the answer came,
The printed poems cheer'd him, though the book
Had lost a scent that ne'er would come again ;
And when the answer came, 'twas like the words
A mother murmurs to a silly child —
A smiling, pitying, quiet kind of tone,
That made him angrier than violent speech ;
And at the end a melancholy hint
About ingratitude. Teddy must trust
In those who had his fortune most at heart,
Nor rashly turn his friends to enemies,

EDWARD CROWHURST in

Nor meddle with the kindly schemes of those
Who knew the great world better far than he.
Oh, Teddy's eyes were dim with bitter dew !
' Begging is begging, and I never begg'd !
Shame on me if I ever take their gold ! '
I coax'd him to be silent ; and though soon
The bitter mood wore off, his gladness lost
The look of happy pride it wore of old.

Twas happy, happy, in the little home,
And summer round about on wood and field,
And summer on the bit of garden ground.
But soon came news, like whiffs of colour'd smoke,
Blown to us thickly on the idle wind,
And smelling of the city. For the land
Was crying Teddy's praises ! Every morn
Came papers full of things about the Book,
And letters full of cheer from distant folk ;
And Teddy toil'd away, and tried his best
To keep his glad heart humble. Then, one day,
A smirking gentleman, with inky thumbs,
Call'd, chatted, pried with little fox's eyes
This way and that, and when he went away
He wrote a heap of lying scribble, styled
' A Summer Morning with the Labourer Bard ! '
Then others came : some, mild young gentlemen,

n8 EDWARD CROWHURST

Who chirp'd, and blush'd, and simper'd, and were gone ;

Some, sallow ladies wearing spectacles,

And pale young misses, rolling languid eyes,

And pecking at the words my Teddy spake

Like sparrows picking seed ; and, once or twice,

Fine merry gentlemen who talk'd no stuff,

But chatted sensibly of common things,

And made us feel at home. Ay, not a day

But Teddy must be sent for, from the fields,

To meet with fine-clad strangers from afar.

The village folk began to open eyes

And wonder, but were only more afraid

Of Teddy, gave him hard suspicious looks,

And shunn'd him out-o'-doors. Yet how they throng'd,

Buzzing like humble bees at swarming time,

That morn the oil'd and scented gentleman

(For such we thought him) brought a little not j

From Lord Fitztalbot of Fitztalbot Tower,

Yonder across the moorland. 'Twas a line

Bidding my Teddy to the Tower, and he

Who brought it was the footman of my lord.

Well, Teddy went, was many hours away,

And then return'd with cat's-claws round his lips.

' See ! ' Teddy cried, and flung a little purse

Of money in my lap ; and I, amazed,

Counted ten golden guineas in my palm,

EDWARD CROWIIURST 119

Then gazed at Teddy, saw how pale he was,

And ask'd what ail'd him. ' 'Tis the money, lass,'

He answer'd, groaning deep. ' He talk'd, and seem'd

Right kindly ; ask'd about my home, and you ;

Spoke of the poems, smiled, and bow'd farewell ;

And, dropping that same money in my hat,

Bade me go dine below. I burn'd like fire,

Felt choking, yet was fearful to offend,

And took the money, as I might have took

A blazing cinder, bow'd, and came away.

O Lord ! O Lord ! this comes of yonder loon,

Who sent the book a-begging ! ' Then he talk'd —

How fiercely and how wildly, clenching hands :

' Was not a poet better than a lord ?

Why should the cruel people use him so ?

Why would the world not leave his home in peace ? '

And last, he vow^d to send the money back.

But I, though shamed and troubled, thought him wrong,

And vow^d my lord was kind, and meant us well,

And won him o'er at last to keep the purse.

And ah ! we found it useful very soon,

When I lay in, and had a dreadful time,

And brought our girl. Then Teddy put aside

All grief and anger ; thought of us alone ;

Forgot, or nearly, all the praise and blame

Of loveless strangers ; and was proud and glad,

Making fond rhymes about the babe and me.

:o EDWARD CROWHURST

Ah ! had the folk but let my man alone,
All would be happy now. He loved his work,
Because it kept him in the fields ; he loved
The babe and me ; and all he needed more,
To keep his heart content, was pen and ink,
And now and then a book. And as for praise,
He needed it no more than singing birds ;
And as for money, why, he wanted none ;
And as for prying strangers in the house,
They brought a clumsy painful sense of pride
That made him restless. He was ever shy
Of company — he loved to dream alone —
And the poor life that he had known so long
Was just the kind of life he suited best.
He look'd a fine straight man in homespun gear,
But ne'er seem'd easy in his Sunday coat.

What should his fine friends do at last, but write,
Bidding my man to London, — there to meet
A flock o' gentlefolk, who spent their days
In making books ! — Though here we dwell so near,
That northward, far away, you see the sky
Black with the smoky breathing of the city,
We ne'er had wander'd far away from home,
Save once or twice, five miles to westward yonder,
To Kersey Fair. Well, Teddy fix'd to go ;

EDWARD CROWITURST 121

And seeing him full bent, I held my tongue.

And off he set, one day, in Sunday black,

A hazel staff" over his shoulder flung,

His bundle swinging, — and was sped by train

To London town. Two weeks he stay'd away ;

And, when he came from London, he was changed.

His eyes look'd wild, his cheek was pale, his step

Unsteady ; when he entered, I could smell

Drink in his breath. Full pain'd, and sick at heart,

I question'd him ; but he was petulant,

And snapt me short ; and when I brought the child,

He push'd her from him. Next day, when he rose,

His face was pallid ; but his kindly smile

Came back upon it. Ere the day was out,

He told me of his doings, of the men

And places he had seen, and when, and how.

He had been dull in dwellings of the rich,

Had felt ashamed in great grand drawing-rooms,

And angry that the kindly people smiled

As if in pity ; and the time, he said,

Would have gone drearily, had he lack'd the cheer

He chanced to find among some jovial folk

Who lived by making books. Full plain I saw

That something had gone wrong. His ways were strange,

He did not seem contented in his home,

He scarcely glinted at the poor old books

!2 EDWARD CROWHURST

He loved so dearly. In a little time,
Teddy grew more himself, at home, a-field,
And though, from that day forward, he began
To take a glass and smoke a pipe at night,
I scarcely noticed. Thus the year wore on ;
And still the papers praised him far away,
And still the letters came from distant folk.

And Teddy had made friends : folk who could talk
About the things he loved, and flatter him,
Ay, laugh aloud to see him drink his glass,
And clap his back, and shake him by the hand,
How wild soe'er he talk'd. For by degrees
His tongue grew freer, he was more at ease
With strangers. Oft he spent the evening hours
With merry-makers in the public-house,
And totter'd home with staring, dazzled eyes.
The country people liked him better now,
And loved to coax him out to drink at night,
And, gaping, heark'd to the strange things he said.
Ah, then my fear grew heavy, though his heart
Was kindly still, his head still clear and wise,
And he went wastering only now and then.

But soon his ways grew better, for his time
Was spent in finishing another book.

EDWARD CROWHURST 123

Yet then I found him changed in other things ;
For once or twice when money as before
Was sent or given him, he only laugh'd,
And took it, not in anger. And, be sure,
Money grew needful in the little home —
Another babe was coming. Babe and book
Were born together, but the first was born
Quiet and breathless. 'T would be idle talk
To speak about the book. What came of that,
Was much the same as what had come before :
The papers praised it over all the land,
But just a shade more coolly ; strange folk wrote,
But not so oft. Yet Teddy was in glee,
For this time fifty golden guineas came
From the rich man in London.

Once again,
They coax'd him up to London ; once again,
Home came he changed, — with wilder words of wit,
And sharper sayings, on his tongue. He toil'd
Even less than ever : nay, his idle friends,
Who loved to drain the bottle at his side,
Took up his time full sorely. We began
To want and pinch : more money was subscribed,
And taken : — till at last my man grew sick
Of working in the open fields at all.

i24 EDWARD CROWHURST

And just as work grew hardest to his mind,
The Lord Fitztalbot pass'd him on the road,
And tum'd his head away. A change had come,
As dreadful as the change within himself.
The papers wrote the praise of newer men,
The strange folk sent him letters scarce at all ;
And when he spake about another book,
The man in London wrote a hasty ' No ! '
And said the work had little chance to sell.
Those words were like a sunstroke. Wild and scared,
My Teddy stared at ' London ' — all his dreams
Came back upon him — and with bitter tongue
He mock'd and threaten'd. 'Twas of no avail !
His fine-day friends like swallows wing'd away,
The summer being o'er ; the country folk
Began to knit their foreheads as of old,
Save one or two renown'd as ne'er-do-wells ;
And, made with pride, bitten with shame and fear,
Teddy drank deeper at the public-house.

Teddy to blame ? Teddy to blame ? Ah, nay !
The blame be theirs who broke his simple pride
With money, beggar'd him against his will,
The blame be theirs who flatter'd him from home,
And led him out to make his humble ways

EDWARD CROWIIURST 125

An idle show. The blame be theirs who smiled
Whene'er he play'd a wrong and foolish part,
Because he had skill to write a bit of verse.
The blame be theirs who spoil'd him like a child,
And, when the newness of his face was gone,
Turn'd from him scornfully and smiled elsewhere.
Teddy to blame ! — a silly, ignorant man,
Not learn'd, not wise, not cunning in the world !

But hearken how I changed him yet once more,
One day when he was sick and ill with pain.
I spake of all our early courting days,
Full low and tender, of the happy time
When I brought forth our girl, and of the words
He spake when we were happy ; last of all,
' Teddy,' I said, ' let people be unkind,
The whole world hard, you cannot heal your pain
Wastering, idling : think of merrier days,
Of me, and of our girl, and drink no more.'
He gazed at me full long, his bosom rose
And flutter'd, and he held my hand in his,
And shivering, moaning, sank into a chair ;
And, looking at the bookshelf at his side,
And at the common-looking thumb-mark'd books,
He promised, promised, with his poor cheeks wet,
And his voice broken, and his lips set firm.

126 EDWARD CROWHURST

True Heart, he kept his word. The public-house
Knew him no longer ; in the fields he toil'd
Lonely once more ; and in the evenings
Read books and wrote, — and all he wrote, I know,
Was sad, sad, sad. Bravely he work'd all day,
But not so cheerfully. And no man cared
To brighten him with goodly words. His face
Was stale with gentlefolk, his heart too proud
To mix with coarse, low men. Oft in the fields
They saw him turn his poor eyes Londonwards,
And sigh ; but he was silent of the pain
That grew upon him. Slowly he became
The sadden'd picture of his former self:
He stood at ploughtail looking at the clouds,
He watch'd the ways of birds and trees and flowers ;
But all the little things he learn'd and loved
Had ta'en a sadder meaning. Oftentimes,
In spite of all he did to hide his heart,
I saw he would have been a happy man
If any one had praised him as of old ;
But he was never sent for from the fields,
No strangers wrote to cheer him, and he seem'd
All, all, forgotten. Still, as true as steel,
He held his promise to our girl and me,
Though oft, I know, the dreadful longing came
To fly to drink for comfort. Then, one night,

EDWARD CROWHURST 127

I heard a stirring in the dark : our girl

Crept close to me, and whisper'd in mine ear —

' Hark ! father's crying ! '

Oh 'tis terrible
To hear a strong man weep ! I could not bear
To find him grieving so, but crept unto him,
And put my arms about him, on his neck
Weeping, ' O Teddy, Teddy, do not so !
Cheer up, for you will kill me if you cry.
What do you long for ? Why are you so sad ? '
And I could feel him crush his hot tears down,
And shake through every limb. ' O lass ! ' he cried,
' I cannot give a name to what I want ;
I cannot tell you why I grow so sad ;
But I have lost the pleasure and the peace
The verses brought me. I am sick and changed, —
I think too much of other men, — I seem
Despised and useless. If I did not feel
You loved me so, and were so kind and true,
When all the world is cruel, I should fall
And wither. All my strength is gone away,
And I am broken ! '

'Twas but little cheer
That I could give him : that was grief too deep
For foolish me to understand or cure.
I made the little parlour bright o' nights,

128 EDWARD CROWHURST

Coax'd him to read aloud the books he loved,

And often he was like himself again,

Singing for ease o' heart ; and now and then,

A poem printed in a newspaper,

Or something kind from people in the world,

Help'd me a little. So the time wore on ; —

Till suddenly, one night in winter time,

I saw him change. Home came he, white and pale,

Shivering, trembling, looking wild and strange,

Yet speaking quietly. ' My head feels queer —

It aches a bit ! ' he said ; and the next day

He could not rise from bed. Quiet he lay,

But now and then I saw him raise his hand

And hold his forehead. In the afternoon,

He fell to troubled sleep, and, when he woke,

He did not seem to know me. Full of fear,

I sent for Doctor Barth. When Doctor came,

He found poor Teddy tossing on his bed,

Moaning and muttering and clenching teeth,

And Doctor said, ' The ill is on the brain —

Has he been troubled lately ? ' and I cried,

1 Ay, much, much troubled ! He has fretted sore

For many months ! '

'Twas sad, 'twas sad to see
My strong man suffer on his dull sick-bed,

EDWARD CROiVIIURST 129

Not knowing me, but crying out of things
That haunted him. I will not weary you
By telling how the Doctor brought him round,
And how at last he rose from bed, the ghost
Of his old self, and something gone away
That never would return. Then it was plain
That he could work no more : the Light had fled,
Which keeps a man a man despite the world
And all its cruel change. To fright the wolf,

I took in washing at the cottage here ;
And people sent us money now and then,
And pitying letters reach'd us from the world,
Too late ! too late !

Thank the good God above,
Who made me strong and willing, I could keep
The little house above us, though 'twas dear,
And ah ! I work'd more hard because I knew
Poor Teddy's heart would break outright elsewhere.
Yet Teddy hardly seem'd to comprehend
All that had happen'd. Though he knew me well,
And spake full sensibly of many things,
He lack'd the power to speak of one thing long.
Sometimes he was as merry as a bird,
Singing wild songs he leam'd by heart when young ;
Sometimes he wish'd to wander out a-field,

II K

p EDWARD CROWHURST

But easy 'twas to lead his wits away

To other things. And he was changeful ever,

Now laughing and now crying ; and at times

He wrote strange notes to poets that were dead,

And named himself by all their names in turn,

Still making verse, which I had sense to see

Was wild, and strange, and wrong — not like the verse

He made of old. One day for hours he sat,

Looking upon the bit of garden ground,

And smiling. When I spoke, he look'd and laugh'd.

' Surely you know me, Teddy ? ' I exclaimed ;

And up he raised his head, with shrill thin voice

Saying, ' Yes, you are Queen Elizabeth,

And I am Shakespeare ; ' and again he smiled

Craftily to himself ; but when I hung

Around his neck, and wept, and ask'd again,

He turn'd upon me with so pale a look,

So wan, so sharp, so full of agony,

'Twas clear the cloud was lifted for a moment,

'Twas clear he knew that he was Teddy Crowhurst,

And that the light of life had gone away.

And oft, in sunny weather, he and I
Had walks in quiet places, — in the lanes,
And in the woods, and by the river side ;
And he was happy, prying as of old

EDWARD CROWIIURST r 51

In little mossy nests, or plucking flowers,

Or dropping pebbles at the water-brim,

To make the speckled minnows start and fly

Jn little gleams of light. Ne'er had he been

More cunning in the ways and looks of things,

Though memory fail'd him when he tried for names.

The sable streaks upon the arum-flower

Were strange to him as ever ; a lark singim

Made his eyes misty as it used to do ;

The shining sun, the waving of green boughs,

The rippling of the river down the dell,

Were still true pleasure. All the seasons brought

Something to charm him. Staring on the snow,

Or making great snow-houses like a boy,

He was as busy when the boughs were bare,

As carrying home a bough of scented May

Or bunch of yellow lilies from the pond.

What had been pleasure in his younger days

Came back to keep him quiet in the world.

He gave much love to trees and birds and flowers,

And, when the mighty world was all unkind,

The little, gentle, speechless things were true.

True Heart, I never thought that he could bear
To last so long ; but ten slow years have fled
Since the first book that brought the trouble and pain

132

EDWARD CROIVHURST

Was printed, — and within the parlour there

Teddy is sitting, busy as a bee.

Doing ? He dreams the world that knows him not

Rings with his praises, and for many an hour

Sits busy with the verse of later years,

Marks, copies, and arranges it with care,

To go to some great printer that he thinks

Is waiting ; and from time to time he eyes

The books they printed, numbering the lines,

Counting the pages. Sometimes he is Burns,

Sometimes John Milton, sometimes other men,

And sometimes — always looking saddest then —

Knows he is Teddy Crowhurst. Thin he is,

And worn, and feeble, — wearing slowly down

Like snowdrift ; and at times, when thoughts of old

Come for a moment like a mirror flash'd

Into his eyes, he does not groan and weep,

But droops the more, and seems resign'd and still.

True Heart, I fear the end is near at last !

He sits and hearkens vacantly and dreams,

He thrills at every knocking at the door,

Stilly he waits for light that never comes,

That never will return until the end.

And oft at evening, when my work is done,

And the dark gathers, and he holds my hand,

The waiting grows intenser, and becomes

EDWARD CROWIIURST 133

The sense o' life itself. Take Teddy hence !
Show me the man will draw my hand away !
I am a quiet comfort to his pain ;
For though his thoughts be far away from here,
I know he feels my hand ; and ah ! the touch
Just keeps his heart from breaking. Tis my joy
To work where I can watch him through the day,
And quiet him, and see he wants for nought.
He loves to sit among his books and flowers,
And wears away with little pain, and feels
The quiet parlour is a pleasant place ;
And there — God bless him ! — in a happy time
"While Teddy feels the darkness pass away,
And smiles farewell upon his wife and girl,
The Light that he has lost will come again
To shine upon him as he goes to sleep.*

* This poem is founded partly on the life of John Clare, partly
on that of another poet personally known to the author. As the
poem stands, it is a brightened rather than a darkened version of
Clare's tale ; is rather, indeed, what Clare's tale ??iight have been,
had he wedded a woman of a loving soul, like my speaker. It is
said that Clare's wife never once visited her husband for twenty
years, during the whole of which time he was an inmate of the
pauper lunatic asylum at Northampton.

134

BARBARA GRAY

A mourning woman, robed in black,
Stands in the twilight, looking back ;
Her hand is on her heart, her head
Bends musingly above the Dead,
Her face is plain, and pinch'd, and thin,
But splendour strikes it from within,

I
'• Barbara Gray !

Pause, and remember what the world will say.'
I cried, and turning on the threshold fled,
When he was breathing on his dying bed ;
But when, with heart grown bold,
I cross'd the threshold cold,
Here lay John Hamerton, and he was dead.

ii

And all the house of death was chill and dim,
The dull old housekeeper was looking grim,
The hall-clock ticking slow, the dismal rain
Splashing by fits against the window-pane,

BARBARA GRAY 135

The garden shivering in the twilight dark.
Beyond, the bare trees of the empty park,
And faint gray light upon the great cold bed,
And I alone ; and he I turn'd from, — dead.

HI

Ay, ' dwarf they called this man who sleeping lies :
No lad)- shone upon him with her eyes,
No tender maiden heard his true-love vow,
And pressed her kisses on the great bold brow.
What cared John Hamerton ? With light, light laugh,
He halted through the streets upon his staff;
Halt, lame, not beauteous, yet with winning grace
And sweetness in his pale and quiet face ;
Fire, hell's or heaven's, in his eyes of blue ;
Warm words of love upon his tongue thereto ;
Could win a woman's Soul with what he said ;—
And I am here ; and here he lieth dead.

IV

I would not blush if the bad world saw now
How by his bed I stoop and kiss his brow !
Ay. kiss it, kiss it, o;er and o'er again,
With all the love that fills my heart and brain.

v
For where was man had stoop'd to me before,
Though I was maiden still, and girl no more ?

136 BARBARA GRAY

Where was the spirit that had deign 'd to prize
The poor plain features and the envious eyes ?
What lips had whisper'd warmly in mine ears ?
When had I known the passion and the tears ?
Till he I look on sleeping came unto me,
Found me among the shadows, stoop'd to woo me,
Seized on the heart that flutter'd withering here,
Strung it and wrung it, with new joy and fear,
Yea, brought the rapturous light, and brought the day,
Waken'd the dead heart, withering away,
Put thorns and roses on the unhonour'd head,
That felt but roses till the roses fled !
Who, who but he crept to that sunless ground,
Content to prize the faded face he found ?
John Hamerton, I pardon all — sleep sound, my love,
sleep sound !

VI

What fool that crawls shall prate of shame and sin ?
Did he not think me fair enough to win ?
Yea, stoop and smile upon my face as none,
Living or dead, save he alone, had done ?
Bring the bright blush unto my cheek, when ne'er
The full of life and love had mantled there ?
And I am all alone ; and here lies he, —
The only man that ever smiled on me.

BARBARA CRAY 137

vn

Here, in his lonely dwelling-house he lies,
The light all faded from his winsome eyes :
Alone, alone, alone, he slumbers here,
With wife nor little child to shed a tear !
Little, indeed, to him did nature give ;
Nor was he good and pure as some that live,
But pinch'd in body-, warp'd in limb,
He hated the bad world that loved not him !

VIII

Barbara Gray !

Pause, and remember how he turn'd away ;

Think of your wrongs, and of your sorrows. Nay !

Woman, think rather of the shame and wrong

Of pining lonely in the dark so long ;

Think of the comfort in the grief he brought,

The revelation in the love he taught.

Then, Barbara Gray !

Blush not, nor heed what the cold world will say ;

But kiss him, kiss him, o'er and o'er again,

In passion and in pain,

With all the love that fills your heart and brain !

Yea, kiss him, bless him, pray beside his bed,

For you have loved, and here your love lies dead.

138

ARTIST AND MODEL

(Inscribed to W. M., the Artist)

Is it not pleasant to wander

In town on Saturday night,
While people go hither and thither,

And shops shed cheerful light?
And, arm in arm, while our shadows

Chase us along the panes,
Are we not quite as cozy

As down among country lanes ?

Nobody knows us, heeds us,

Nobody hears or sees,
And the shop-lights gleam more gladly

Than the moon on hedges and trees ;
And people coming and going,

All upon ends of their own,
Though they work a spell on the spirit,

Make it more finely alone.

ARTIST AND MODEL 139

The sound seems harmless and pleasant

As the murmur of brook and wind ;
The shops with the fruit and the pictures

Have sweetness to suit my mind ;
And nobody knows us, heeds us,

And our loving none reproves, —
/, the poor figure-painter !

You, the lady he loves !

And what if the world should scorn you,

For now and again, as you do,
Assuming a country kirtle,

And bonnet of straw thereto,
Or the robe of a vestal virgin,

Or a nun's gray gabardine,
And keeping a brother and sister

By standing and looking divine ?

And what if the world, moreover,

Should silently pass me by,
Because, at the dawn of the struggle,

I labour some storeys high !
Why, there 's comfort in waiting, working,

And feeling one's heart beat right, —
And rambling alone, love-making,

In London on Saturday night.

140 ARTIST AND MODEL

Ah ! when, with a blush Titianic,

You peep'd in that lodging of mine,
Did I not praise the good angels

For sending a model so fine ?
When I was fill'd with the pureness

You brought to the lonely abode,
Did I not learn to love you ?

And — did Love not lighten the load ?

Perchance, indeed, little darling,

While I yearn'd and plotted and plann'd,
And you watch'd me in love and in yearning,

Your heart did not quite understand
All the wonder and aspiration

You meant by your loveliness,
All the faith in the frantic endeavour

Your beautiful face could express !

For your love and your beauty have thriven

On things of a low degree,
And you do not comprehend clearly

The drift of a dreamer like me ;
And perchance, when you look'd so divinely,

You meant, and meant only, to say :
' How sad that he dwells in a garret !

And lives on so little a day ! '

ARTIST A. YD MODEL (41

What of that ? If your sweetness and beauty,

And the love that is part of thee,
Were miriord in wilder visions,

And express'd much more to me,
Did the beautiful face, my darling,

Need subtler, loftier lore ? —
Nay, beauty is all our wisdom, —

We painters demand no more.

Indeed, I had been no painter,

And never could hope to rise,
Had I lack'd the power of creating

The meanings for your sweet eyes ;
And what you were really thinking

Scarcely imported, in sooth, —
Since the truth we artists fail for,

Is the truth that looks the truth.

Your beautiful face was before me,

Set in its golden hair ;
And the wonder and love and yearning

Were shining sublimely there !
And your eyes said — ' Work for glory !

Up, up, where the angels call ! '
And I understood, and I labourd,

And I love the face for it all !

142 ARTIST AND MODEL

I am talking, you think, so strangely !

And you watch with wondering eyes
Could I utter one half of the yearning

Your face, even now, implies !
But the yearning will not be utter'd,

And never, ah ! never can be,
Till the work of the world is over,

And we see as immortals see.

Yet bless thee for ever and ever

For keeping me humble and true,
And would that mine Art could utter

The wisdom I find in you !
Enough to labour and labour,

And to feel one's heart beat right,
And to wander unknown, love-making,

In London on Saturday night !

You think : ' How dearly I love him !

How dearly he loves me !
How sweet to live on, and love him,

With children at my knee !
With the useless labour over,

And comfort and leisure won,
And clever people praising

The work that he has done ! '

ARTIST AND MODEL 143

I think : ' How dearly I love her !

How dearly she loves me !
Vet the beauty the heart would utter

Endeth in agony ;
And life is a climbing, a seeking

Of something we never can see !
And death is a slumber, a dreaming

Of something that may not be ! '

And your face is sweetly troubled,

Your little hand stirs on mine own,
For you guess at a hidden meaning,

Since I speak in so tender a tone ;
And you rain the yearning upon me

You brought to my help before,
And I ask no mightier wisdom, —

We painters demand no more.

Well, we shall live, my darling,

Together till we grow old,
And people will buy my pictures,

And you will gather the gold ;
And your loveliness will reward me,

And sanctify all I do,
And toiling for Love's sake, darling,

I may toil for Fame's sake, too.

H4 ARTIST AND MODEL

Ah, dearest, how much you teach me,

How much of hope and of light,
Up yonder, planning and painting,

And here on Saturday night ;
And I turn sad eyes no longer

From the pageant that passes around,
And the vision no more seems weary,

And the head may yet be crown'd !

For I ask no more from mortals

Than your beautiful face implies, —
The beauty the artist beholding

Interprets and sanctifies.
Who says that men have fallen,

That life is wretched and rough ?
I say, the world is lovely,

And that loveliness is enough.

So my doubting days are ended,

And the labour of life seems clear ;
And life hums deeply around me,

Just like the murmur here,
And quickens the sense of living,

And shapes me for peace and storm, —
And dims my eyes with gladness

When it glides into colour and form !

ARTIST AXD MODEL 145

His form and His colour, darling,

Are all we apprehend,
Though the meaning that underlies them

May be utter'd in the end ;
And I seek to go no deeper

Than the beauty and wonder there,
Since the world can look so wondrous,

And your face can look so fair.

For ah ! life's stream is bitter,

When too greedily we drink,
And I might not be so happy

If I knew quite all you think ;
And when God takes much, my darling,

He leaves us the colour and form, —
The scorn of the nations is bitter,

But the touch of a hand is warm.

ir

146

JANE LEWSON
A Tale of Repression

A little yellow woman, dress'd in black,

With weary crow's-feet crawling round the eyes,

And solemn voice, that seem'd a call to prayer ;

Another yellow woman, dress'd in black,

Sad, too, and solemn, yet with bitterness

Bum'd in upon the edges of her lips,

And sharper, thinner, less monotonous voice ;

And last, a little woman, auburn-hair'd,

Pensive a little, but not solemnised,

And pretty, with the open azure eyes,

The white soft cheek, the little mindless mouth,

The drooping childish languor. There they dwelt,

In a great dwelling of a smoky square

In Islington, named by their pious friends,

And the lean Calvinistic minister —

The Misses Lewson, and their sister Jane.

Miss Sarah, in her twenty-seventh year,
Knew not the warmer passions of her sex,

JANE LEWSON 147

But groan'd both day and night to save her soul ;

Miss Susan, two years younger, had regrets

Her sister knew not, and a secret pain

Because her heart was withering — whence her tongue

Could peal full sharp at times, and show a sting ;

But Jane was comely — might have cherish'd hopes,

Since she was only twenty, had her mind

Been hopefuller. The elders ruled the house.

Obedience and meekness to their will

Was a familiar habit Jane had learn'd

Full early, and had fitted to her life.

So closely 'twas a portion of her needs.

She gazed on them, as Eastern worshippers

Gaze on a rayless picture of the sun.

Her acts seem'd other than her own ; her heart

Kept melancholy time to theirs ; her eyes

Look'd ever unto them for help and light;

Her eyelids droop'd before them if they chid.

A woman weak and dull, yet fair of face !

Her mother, too, had been a comely thing —

A bright-hair'd child wed to an aged man,

A heart that broke because the man was hard, —

Not like the grim first wife, who brought the gold,

And yielded to his melancholy kiss

The melancholy virgins. Well, the three,

Alone in all the world, dwelt in the house

148 JANE LEWSON

Their father left them, living by the rents

Of certain smaller houses of the poor.

And they were stern to wring their worldly dues—

Not charitable, since the world was base,

But cold to all men, save the minister,

Who weekly cast the darkness of his blessing

Over their chilly table.

All around
The life of London shifted like a cloud,
Men sinned, and women fell, and children cried,
And Want went ragged up and down the lanes ;
While the two hueless sisters dragg'd their chain
Self-woven, pinch'd their lives complexionless,
Keeping their feelings quiet, hard, and pure.
But Jane felt lonesome in the world ; and oft,
Pausing amid her work, gazed sadly forth
Upon the dismal square of wither'd trees,
The dusty grass that grew within the rails,
The garden-plots where here and there a flower
Grew up, and sicken'd in the smoke, and died ;
And when the sun was on the square, the sounds
Came from the children in the neighbouring streets,
She thought of happy homes among the fields,
And brighter faces. When she walk'd abroad,
The busy hum of life oppress'd her heart

JAXE LEWSON 149

And frighten'd her : she did not raise her eyes,

But stole along, — a sweet shape clad in black,

A pale and pretty face, at which the men

Stared vacant admiration. Far too dull

To blame her gloomy sisters for the shape

Her young days took, she merely knew the world

Was drear ; and if at times she dared to dream

Of things that made her colour come and go,

And dared to hope for cheerier, sunnier days,

She grew the wanner afterwards, and felt

Sad and ashamed. The dull life that she wore,

Like to a gloomy garment, day by day,

Was a familiar life, the only life

She clearly understood. Coldly she heard

The daily tale of human sin and wrong,

And the small thunders of the Sunday nights

In chapel. All around her were the streets,

And frightful sounds, and gloomy sunless faces.

And thus with tacit dolour she resign'd

Her nature to the hue upon the cheeks

Of her cold sisters. Yet she could not pray

As they pray'd, could not wholly feel and know

The blackness of mankind, her own heart's sin ;

But when she tried to get to God, and yearn'd

For help not human, she could only cry,

Feeling a loveless and a useless thing,

15° JANE LEWSON

Thinking of those sweet places in the fields,
Those homes whereon the sun shone pleasantly,
And happy mothers sat at cottage doors
Among their children.

Save for household work,
She would have wasted soon. From week to week
The burthen lay on her,— the gloomy twain
Being too busy searching for their souls,
And begging God above to spare the same.
Yet she was quiet thus, content and glad
To silent drudgery, such as saved her heart
From wilder flutterings. The Sabbath day
Was drearest : drest in burial black, she sat
Those solemn hours in chapel, listening,
And scarcely heeding what she heard, but watching
The folk around, their faces and their dress,
Or gazing at the sunshine on the floor ;
And service over, idly pined at home,
And, looking from the window at the square,
Long'd for the labour of the coming day.
Her sisters watch'd her warily, be sure ;
And though their hearts were pure as pure could be,
They loved her none the better for her face.

Love is as cunning as disease or death,
No doctor's skill will ward him off or cure,

JANE LEWSON 151

And soon he found this pale and weary girl,
Despite the cloud of melancholy life
That rain'd around her. In no beauteous shape,
In guise of passionate stripling iris-eyed,
Such as our poets picture in their songs,
Love came ; — but in the gloomy garb of one
Whom men call'd pious, and whose holy talk
Disarm'd the dragons. 'Twere but idle, friend,
To count the wiles by which he won his way
Into her heart ; how she vouchsafed him all
The passion of a nature not too strong ;
How, when the first wild sunshine dazzled her,
The woman loved so blindly, that her thoughts
Became a secret trouble in the house ;
And how at last, with white and frighten'd face,
She glided out into the dark one night,
And vanish'd with no utterance of farewell.

The sisters gave a quick and scandall'd cry,
And sought a little for the poor flown bird ;
Then, thinking awful things, composed their hearts
In silence, pinch'd their narrow natures more,
And waited. ' This is something strange,' they

thought,
' Which God will clear ; we will not think the worst,
Although she was a thing as light as straw.'

52 JANE LEWS ON

Nor did they cry their fear among their friends,
Hawking a secret shame, but calmly waited,
Trusting no stain would fall upon their chill
And frosty reputations. Weeks pass'd by ;
They prayed, they fasted, yellowing more and more,
They waited sternly for the end, and heard
The timid knock come to the door at last.

i fc was a dark and rainy night ; the streets
Were gleaming watery underneath the lamps,
The dismal wind scream'd fitfully without,
And made within a melancholy sound ;
And the faint knock came to the door at last.
The sisters look'd in one another's faces,
And knew the wanderer had return'd again,
But spoke not ; and the younger sister rose,
Open'd the door, peer'd out into the rain,
And saw the weary figure shivering there,
Holding a burthen underneath her shawl.
And silently, with wan and timid look,
The wanderer slipt in. No word of greeting-
Spake either of the sisters, but their eyes
Gleam'd sharply, and they waited. White and cold,
Her sweet face feebly begging for a word,
Her long hair dripping loose and wet, stood Jane
Before them, shivering, clasping tight her load,

y.lXE LEWSON 153

In the dull parlour with the cheerless fire.
Till Susan, pointing, cried in a shrill voice,
• What are you carrying underneath your shawl,
Jane Lewson?' and the faint despairing voice,
While the rain murmur'd and the night-wind blew,
Moan'd, ' It 's my Baby /' and could say no more,
For the wild sisters scream'd and raised their hands,
And Jane fell quivering down upon her knees,
The old shawl opening show'd a child asleep,
And, trebling terror with a piteous cry,
The child awaken'd.

Pointing to the door,
With twitching lips of venom, Susan said —
' Go ! ' and the elder sister echo'd her
More sadly and more solemnly. But Jane,
Clinging to Sarah's skirts, implored and moan'd,
' Don't turn me out ! my little girl will die !
I have no home in all the world but here ;
K ill me, but do not drive me from the house ! '
' Jane Lewson/ Susan cried, as white as death,
' Where is the father of this child ? ' and Jane
Moan'd, ' Gone, gone, gone ; ' and when she named

his name,
And how, while she who spake in sickness lay,
He secretly had fled across the seas,

154 JANE LEWSON

They shiver'd to the hair. Holding her hand

Upon her heart, the elder sister spake

In dull monotonous voice — ' Look up ! look up !

Perhaps 'tis not so ill as we believed.

Are you a wedded woman ? ' The reply

Was silentness and heavy drooping eyes,

Yet with no blush around the quivering lids ;

And Sarah, freezing into ice, spake on

In dull monotonous voice — ' Your sin has brought

Shame on us all, but they who make their beds

Must sleep upon them ; go away, bad woman !

The third of what our father left is yours,

But you are not our sister any more.'

Still moaning, shuddering, the girl begg'd on,

Nor ceased to rock the babe and still its cries,

' Kill me, but do not drive me from the house !

Put any pain upon me that you please,

But do not, do not, drive me forth again

Into the dreadful world ! I have no friends

On all the earth save you ! ' The sisters look'd

At one another, and without a word

Walk'd from the room.

Jane sat upon the floor,
Soothing the child, and did not rise, but waited ;
The agony and terror dried her tears,

JANE LEW SON 155

And she could only listen, praying God

That He would soften them ; and the little one

Look'd in her face and laugh'd.

A weary hour
Pass'd by, and then, still white, and stern, and cold,
The sisters enter'd, and the elder one
Spake without prelude : ' We have talk'd it o'er,
Jane Lewson, and have settled how to act ;
You have a claim upon us : will you take
The third of what our father left, and find
Another home ? ' But Jane cried, ' Do not, do not
Drive me away ; I have no friends save you ;
And I am sorry.' Trembling, for her heart
Was not all cold, the elder icicle
Resumed : ' Take what is left you, and begone,
And never see our faces any more ;
Or if you will, stay with us here, but only
On these conditions : For the infant's sake,
And for the sake of our good name, our friends
Must never know the miserable child
Is yours ; but we will have it given out
That, being lonely and unwedded here,
We have adopted a poor tenant's child,
With view to bring it up in godliness.'
Jane answer'd, with a feeble thrill of hope,

156 JANE LEWSON

' Anything, anything, — only leave me not
Alone in the dark world.' ' Peace ! ' Susan said,
' You do not understand : the child herself
Must never know Jane Lewson is her mother :
Neither by word nor look nor tender folly,
Must you reveal unto the child her shame,
And yours, and ours ! ' Then, with a bitter cry,
And a wild look, Jane cried, ' And must my babe
Not know me ? ' ' Never,' Sarah Lewson said :
' For the babe's sake, for yours, for ours, the shame
Must not be utter'd. See, you have your choice :
Take what our father gave you, and depart,
Or stay on these conditions. We are firm.
We have decided kindly, not forgetting
You were our sister, nor that this poor child
Is blameless, save that all the flesh is sin,
But not forgetting, either, what we owe
To God above us.' Weeping o'er the child,
Not rising yet, Jane answer'd, ' I will stay ;
Yes, gladly, for the little baby's sake,
That folk may never call it cruel names.'
And the stern sisters took from off the shelf
The great old Bible, placed it in her hands
And made her kiss it, swearing before God
Never to anyone in all the world,
Not even to the child itself, to tell

JANE LEIVSON 157

She was its sinful mother. Wild and dazed,
She sware upon the Word. c That is enough,'
Said Sarah ; ' but, Jane Lewson, never again
Speak to us of the evil that has pass'd ;
Live with us as you used to do, and ask
The grace of God, who hath been kinder far
Than you deserved.'

Thus did these icicles
Deal their hard measure, deeming that they did
A virtuous and a righteous deed ; and Jane,
The worn and mindless woman, sank again
Into submission and house-drudgery,
Comforted that she daily saw her child,
And that her shame was hidden from the world,
And that the child would never suffer scorn
Because a sinner bore it. But her heart
Was a bruised reed, the little sunny gleam
Had gone from all things ; and whene'er she pray'd,
She thought the great cold God above her head
Dwelt on a frosty Throne and did not hear.

JANE LEW SON

Yet He, the Almighty Lord of this our breath,
Did see and hear, and surely pitied too,
If God can pity, — but He works as God,
Not man, and so we cannot understand.

No whisper of reproach, no spoken word,
Troubled with memories of her sinfulness
The suffering woman ; yet her daily life
Became a quiet sorrow. In the house
She labour'd with her hands from morn to night,
Seeing few faces save the pensive ones
Whose yellow holiness she bow'd before ;
And tacitly they suffered her to sink
Into the household drudge, — with privilege
Upon the Sabbath day to dress in black,
Sit in the sunless house or go to prayer, —
So idle, that her thoughts could travel back
To shame and bitterness. Her only joy
Was when she gave her little girl the breast,
(They dared not rob her weary heart of that,)

JANE LEWSON 159

When, seated all alone, she felt it suck,
And, as the little lips drew forth the milk,
Felt drowsily resign'd, and closed her eyes,
And trembled, and could feel the happy tears.

There came a quiet gathering in the house,
And by the gloomy minister the child
Was christen'd ; and the name he gave to her
Was ' Margaret Lewson.'' For the sisters said,
' Her mother being buried, as it were,
The girl shall take our name.' And Jane sat by,
And heard the pious lie with aching heart,
And ever after that her trouble grew.

Soon, when the sound of little feet were heard
In the dull dwelling, and a baby-voice
Call'd at the mother's heart, Jane thrill'd and heard,
But even as she listen'd the sweet sounds
Would seem to die into the cloud that hid
The great cold God above her. Margaret
Grew to a little wildling, quick and bright,
Black-eyed, black-hair'd, and passionate and quick,
Not like its mother ; fierce and wild when chid,
So that the gloomy sisters often thought,
' There is a curse upon it ; ' yet they grew
To love the little wildling unaware,
Indulged it in their stern and solemn way,

i6o JANE LEWSON

More cheer' d than they believed by its shrill laugh

Within the dismal dwelling. But the child

Clung most to Jane, and though, when first it learn'd

To call her by her Christian name, the sound

Bruised the poor suffering heart, that wore away ;

And all the little troubles of the child,

The pretty joys, the peevish fits, the bursts

Of passion, work'd upon her nature so,

That all her comfort was to snatch it up,

And cover it with kisses secretly.

Wilful and passionate, yet loving too,

Grew Margaret, — an echo in a cave

Of human life without ; clinging to Jane,

Who never had the heart to fondle it

Before her sisters ; not afraid at times

To pinch the thin, worn arms, or pull the hairs

Upon the aching head, but afterwards

Curing the pain with kisses and with tears.

So that as time wore on the mother's heart

Grew tenderer to its trouble than before.

Then later, when the little girl went forth
To school hard by, the motion and the light
Hied from the house ; and all the morning hours
The thin face came and went against the panes,
Looking out townward, — till the little shape

JANE LEW SON 161

Appear'd out of the cloud, and pale eyes grew

Dim to its coming. As the years went on,

The mother, with the agony in her heart

She could not utter, quietly subdued

Her nature to a listening watchfulness :

Her face grew settled to expectant calm,

Her vision penetrated things around

And gazed at something lying far beyond,

Her very foot linger'd about the house,

As if she loiter'd hearkening for a sound

Out of the world. For Margaret, as she grew,

"Was wilder and more wilful, openly

Master'd the gloomy virgins, and escaped

The pious atmosphere they daily breathed

To gambol in a freer, fresher air ;

And Jane would think, ' 'Twill kill me, if my child

Should turn out wicked.' Mindless though she was,

And feeble, yet the trouble made her sense

Quick, sharp, and subtle to perceive and watch.

A little word upon the girlish tongue

Could sting her, — nay, a light upon the face,

A kindling of the eye, a look the child

Wore when asleep, would trouble her for days

Carrying strangest import. So she waited,

Watching and listening, — while the young new life

Drew in the air, and throve, absorbing hues
n M

1 62 JANE LEWSON

Out of a thousand trivial lights and shades
That hover'd lightly round it. Still to Jane
The habit of submission clung : she watch 'd
The wiser sterner faces oftentimes,
Trembling for confirmation of her fears ;
And nightly pray'd that God, who was so just,
So hard to those who went astray at all,
Would aid her sisters, helping them to make
The little Margaret better as she grew, —
Waking her secret trouble evennore
With countless, nameless acts of help and love,
And humble admonition, — comforted
By secret fondlings of the little arms,
Or kisses on the tiny, wilful mouth
Apart in childish slumber.

Thus the years
Pass'd over her like pensive clouds, and melted
Into that dewy glimmer on the brain,
Which men call Memory. Wherefore recount
The little joys and sorrows of the time ?
The hours when sickness came, and thought itself
Tick'd like a death-watch, — all the daily hopes
And impulses and fears ? Enough to tell,
That all went onward like a troubled stream.
Until the sisters, worn and growing old,

JANE LEIVSON 163

Felt the still Angel coming nearer, nearer,
Scattering sleep-dust on uplooking eyes ;
And Jane, though in her prime, was turning gray ;
And Margaret was a maiden flower full-blown.

A passion-flower ! — a maiden whose rich heart
Bum'd with intensest fire that turn'd the light
Of the sweet eyes into a warm dark dew ;
One of those shapes so marvellously made,
Strung so intensely, that a finger-press,
The dropping of a stray curl unaware
Upon the naked breast, a look, a tone,
Can vibrate to the very roots of life,
And draw from out the spirit light that seems
To scorch the tender cheeks it shines upon ;
A nature running o'er with ecstasy
Of very being, an appalling splendour
Of animal sensation, loveliness
Like to the dazzling panther's ; yet, withal,
The gentle, wilful, clinging sense of love,
Which makes a virgin's soul. It seem'd, indeed,
The gloomy dwelling and the dismal days,
Gloaming upon her heart, had lent this show
Of shining life a melancholy shade
That trebled it in beauty. Such a heart
Needed no busy world to make it beat :

M 2

1 64 JANE LEWSON

It could throb burningly in solitude ;
Since kindly Heaven gave it strength enough
To rock the languid blood into the brains
Of twenty smaller natures.

Then the pain,
The wonder, deepen'd on the mother's heart, —
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not
To be her mother. As she might have watch'd
A wondrous spirit from another world,
Jane Lewson watch'd her child. Could this fair girl, —
This wild and dazzling life, be born oiher! —
A lightning flash struck from a pensive cloud
The wan still moon is drinking ? Like a woman
Who has been sick in darkness many days,
And steps into the sunshine, Jane beheld
Her daughter, and felt blind. A terror grew
Upon her, that the smother'd sense of pride
Lack'd power to kill. She prayed, shewept, she dream'd,
And thought, if Margaret's had been a face
More like the common faces of the streets,
'Twould have been better. With this feeling, grew
The sense of her own secret. Oftentimes
A look from Margaret brought the feeble blush
Into the bloodless cheek ; — creeping away
Into her chamber, Jane would wring her hands,

JANE LEIVSOX 165

Moaning in pain, ' God help me ! If she knew !
Ah. if she knew ! ' And then for many days
Would haunt the dwelling fearfully, afraid
To look on what she loved, — till once again,
Some little kindness, some sweet look or tone,
A happy kiss, would bring her courage back
And cheer her.

Nor had Margaret fail'd to win
The hard-won sisters ; oft their frosty eyes
Enlarged themselves upon her and grew thaw'd —
In secret she was mistress over both —
And in their loveless way, they also felt
A frighten'd pleasure in the beauteous thing
That brighten'd the dull dwelling.

Oftentimes,
The fiery maiden-nature flashing forth
In wilful act or speech or evil looks,
Deepen'd Jane's terror. Margaret heeded not
The sisters' pious teachings, did not show
A godly inclination, — nay, at times
Mock'd openly. Ah, had she guess'd the pain,
The fear, the agony, such mockings gave
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not
To be her mother ! In her secret heart

1 66 JANE LEW SON

Jane deem'd her own deep sorrows all had come
Because she had not, in her dreary youth,
Been godly ; and such flashes as she saw
Gleam from her girl, seem'd wicked things indeed ;
And at such times the weary woman's eyes
Would seek the sunless faces, searching them
For cheer or warning.

In its season came
That light which takes from others what it gives
To him or her who, standing glorified,
Awaits it. 'Tis the old, sad mystery :
No gift of love that comes upon a life
But means another's loss. The new sweet joy,
That play'd in tender colours and mild fire
On Margaret's cheek, upon the mother's heart
Fell like a firebrand.

For to Jane, her friend,
Her dearest in the household from the first,
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not
To be her mother, Margaret first told
The terror — how she loved and was beloved ;
And seated at Jane's feet, with eyes upturn'd,
Playing with the worn fingers, she exclaim'd,
' I love him, Jane ! and you will love him too !

JANE LEWSON 167

1 will not marry any other man ! '

And suddenly Jane felt as if the Lord

Had come behind her in the dark and breathed

A burning fire upon her. For she thought,

' My child will go away, and I shall die ! '

But only murmur'd, ' Marry, Margaret ?

You are too young to marry ! ' and her face

Was like a murder' d woman's.

And the pain,
The agony, deepen'd, when the lover's face
Came smiling to the dwelling, young and bright
With pitiless gladness. Jane was still, and moan'd,
' My child will go away, and I shall die ! '
And look'd upon her sisters, and could see
They pitied her ; but their stern faces said,
' This is God's will ! the just God governs all !
How should we cross such love ? ' adding, ' Beware,-
For our sakes, for your own, but chief of all
For her sake whom you love, remember now !
Pray, and be silent ! ' And the wounded heart
Cried up to God again, and from the sky
No answer came ; when, crush'd beneath her pain,
The woman sicken'd, lay upon her bed,
And thought her time was come.

1 68 JANE LEWSON

Most tenderly
Her daughter nursed her ; little fathoming
The meaning of the wild and yearning look
That made the white face sweet and beautiful ; '
For Jane was saying, ' Lord ! I want to die !
My child would leave me, or my useless life
Would turn a sorrow to her, if I stay'd :
Lord, let me die ! ' Yea, the dull nature clung*
Still unto silence, with the still resolve
Of mightier natures. Thinking she would die,
Jane lay as in a painless dream, and watch'd
The bright face stir around her, following
The shape about the room, and praying stiil
For strength — so happy in her drowsy dream,
That she went chill at times, and felt that thoughts
So tranquil were a sin. A darker hour
Gloam'd soon upon her brain. She could not see
The face she loved ; murmur'd delirious words ;
And in the weary watches of the night,
Moaning and wringing hands, with closed eyes,
Cried, ' Margaret ! Margaret ! ' Then the sisters sought
To lead the girl away, lest she should hear
The secret ; but she conquer' d, and remain'd ;
And one still evening, when the quiet fire
Was making ghosts that quiver'd on the floor
To the faint timepiece ticking, Jane awoke,

JANE LEWSON 169

Clazed long and strangely at the shining face,
Waved her thin arms, cried, ' Margaret ! Margaret !
Where are you, Margaret? Have you gone away ?
Come to your mother ! ' The wild cry of pain
Startled the maiden, but she only thought
The fever'd woman raved. Twining her arms
Around Jane's neck, she murmur'd, ' I am here ! '
Weeping and kissing ; but the woman sigh'd
And shiver'd, crying feebly, ' Let me die !
My little girl has gone into the town,
And she has learn'd to call me wicked names,
And will not come again ! '

When, wearied out,
Jane sank to troubled sleep, her child sat still,
Thinking of those strange words ; and though at last
She shut them from her thought as idle dream,
Their pain return'd upon her. The next day
She spake unto the sisters of the same,
Adding, in a low voice, ' She talk'd of me,
And moan'd out loudly for a little child —
Has she a child ? ' The first quick flash of fear
Died from the yellow visages unseen,
And they were calm. ' Delirium ! ' Sarah said ;
' But you, my child, must watch her sick-bed less —
You are too young, too weak, to bear such things.'

170 JANE LEW SON

And this time Margaret did not say a word,
But yielded, thinking, ' It is very strange ! —
There is a mystery, and I will watch :
Can Jane have had a child ? '

That very day
The dark mists roll'd from the sick woman's brain,
And she awoke, remembering nought, and saw
The sisters watching her. Two days they watch'd ;
And spake but very little, though they saw
The wan eyes wander with a hungry look,
Seeking the face they loved. Then Sarah took
Jane's hand, and spake more gently, sisterly,
(Such natures, friend, grow kinder as they age,)
Than she had done for many years, and told
Of those wild words utter'd while she was ill ;
Jane moan'd and hid her face ; but Sarah said,
' We do not blame you, and perchance the Lord
Spake through you ! We have thought it o'er, and

pray'd :
Now listen, Jane. Since that unhappy night,
We have not spoken of your shame, yet know
You have repented.' With her face still hid,
Jane falter'd, ' Let me die ! ' but Sarah said,
' We do not think, Jane Lewson, you will live ;
So mark me well. If, ere you go away,

JANE LFAVSON ill

You feel that you could go more cheerfully,
If you are certain that it is not sin,
Poor Margaret shall know she is your child ;
We will not, now you die, deny you this ;
And Margaret will be silent of the shame, —
And, lest you break your oath upon the Word,
Our lips shall tell her.' Still Jane Lewson hid
Her face ; and all was quiet in the room,
Save for a shivering sound and feeble crying.
But suddenly Jane lifted up her face,
Beauteous beyond all beauty given to joy,
And quickly whispering, press'd the chilly hand —
' I will not speak ! I will not hurt my child
So cruelly ! — the child shall never know !
And I will go in silence to my grave,
Leaving her happy, — and perhaps the Lord
Will pardon me ! ' Then, for the first last time,
The sisters look'd on Jane with different eyes,
Admiring sternly, with no words of praise,
Her they had scom'd for feebleness so long.

Even then the watchers in the chamber heard
A sound that thrill'd them through, — a rustling dress,
A deep hard breathing as of one in pain ;
And pointing with her hand Jane scream'd aloud ;
And turning suddenly the sisters saw

2 JANE LEWSON

A face as white as marble, yet illumed

By great eyes flashing with a terrible flame

That made them quail. And in a dangerous voice,

As low as a snake's hissing, Margaret said,

' I have heard all ! ' Then the great eyes were turn'd

On Jane, and for a moment they were cold ;

But all at once the breathless agony

Of recognition struck upon her heart,

The bosom heaved and moan'd, the bright tears burst,

And Margaret flung herself upon the bed,

Clasping her shivering mother ; and at first

Jane shrank away, — but soon the wondrous love

Master'd her, — she could smile and kiss and cry —

And hear the dear wild voice cry, ' Mother ! mother ! '

And see the bright face through her tears, and feel

That Love was there.

After the first strange bliss
Of meeting, both were stiller. Jane could weep,
And bear to feel so happy. Margaret
Clang to her mother, breathed her bliss upon her,
Fondling the silver'd tresses, covering
The thin hard hand with kisses and with tears,
Trying to say a thousand merry things
That died in sobs and tears, and only saying,
For all the utterance of her speechful heart,

JANE LEWSON 17

' Mother ! my mother ! ' Suddenly her shame

Came back upon the woman, and she turn'd

To seek her sisters' faces piteously,

But they had stolen from the happy room ;

Whereon again she murmur'd, ' Let me die !

I am a wicked woman, Margaret !

Why did you listen ? ' But a second burst

Of love and blissful pain, and bitter things

Hurl'd at the cruel sisters, answer'd her ;

And more tears flow'd, and more fond kisses brush'd

The tears away, — until at last Jane cried,

' Dear, I could go away not weeping now —

God is so gentle with me ! '

But He, who drew
Thus from His cloud at last and look'd so kind,
Will'd that Jane Lewson should not die so soon.
The agony did not kill her, and the joy
Sent a fresh life into her languid blood
And saved her. So that soon she rose from bed,
To see the sunshine on her daughter's face,
To see the sunless sisters, who again
Look'd cold as ever.

But a burning fire
From Margaret scorch'd them to the heart, because

174 JANE LEW SON

They lov'd the girl ; she heap'd upon their heads
Rage and reproaches, mockery and scorn,
Until they cried, ' You are a wicked girl !
Jane Lewson's shame is on you. After this
We cannot dwell together any more.'
And Margaret would have answer'd fiercelier still,
But that her feeble mother, piteously
Gazing at them to whom in spite of all
Her heart was humble, begg'd her on her knees
For silence; and, thus conquer'd, Margaret
Answer'd her aunts with kisses and with tears
Shower'd on her mother's face.

That evening,
Margaret held her mother round the neck,
And led her to her lover in the house,
And with her lips set firm together, saying,
' This is my dear, dear mother,' told him all,
Concealing nothing. For a time, the man
Look'd startled and appall'd ; but being made
Of clay not base, he smiling spake at last,
And stooping softly, kiss'd the thin worn hand —
' She is my mother, too, — and we will dwell
Together ! '

And they dwelt together, — leaving
The dismal dwelling in the smoky square,

JANE LEW SON 175

To dwell within a cottage close to town ;

But Jane lived with them only for a year,

And then, because the heart that had been used

To suffering so long could not endure

To be so happy, died ; worn out and tired,

Kissing her child ; and as her dying thoughts

Went back along the years, the suffering seem'd

Not such a thankless suffering after all,

But like a faded garment one has learn'd

To love through habit ; — and the woman cried

On her stern sisters with her dying breath.

176

LORD RONALD'S WILE

1
Last night I toss'd upon my bed,
Because I knew that she was dead :
The curtains were white, the pane was blue,
The moon peep'd through,
And its eye was red —
' I would that my love were awake ! ' I said.

Then I rose and the lamp of silver lit,
And over the carpet lightly stept,

Crept to the door and open'd it,

And enter'd the room where my lady slept ;

And the lamplight threw a restless ray

Over the bed on which she lay,

And sparkled on her golden hair,

LORD RONALD'S WIFE 177

Smiled on her lip and melted there,

And I shudder'd because she look'd so fair ; —

For the curtains were white, and the pane was blue,

And the moon look'd through,

And its eye was red :
' I will hold her hand, and think,' I said.

in
And at first I could not think at all,

Because her hand was so thin and cold ;
The gray light flicker'd along the wall,

And I seem'd to be growing old ;
I look'd in her face and could not weep,

I hated the sound of mine own deep breath,
Lest it should startle her from the sleep

That seem'd too sweet and mild for death.
I heard the far-off clock intone

So slowly, so slowly —
Afar across the courts of stone,
The black hound shook his chain with a moan,

As the village clock chimed slowly, slowly,
slowly.
I prayed that she might rise in bed,

And smile and say one little word,
' I long to see her eyes ! ' I said . . .

I should have shriek'd if she had stirr'd.

II N

LORD RONALD'S WIFE

IV
I never sinn'd against thee, Sweet !

And yet, last night, when none could see .
I know not . . . but from head to feet

I seem'd one scar of infamy :
Perhaps because the fingers light
I held had grown so worn and white,
Perhaps because you look'd so fair,
With the thin gray light on your golden hair.

v

You were warm, and I was cold,

Yet you loved me, little one, I knew —
I could not trifle — I was old —

I was wiser, carefuller, than you ;
I liked my horse, I liked my hound,
I liked to hear the bugle sound,
Over my wine I liked to chat,

But soberly, for I had mind :
You wanted that, and only that,

You were as light as is the wind.
At times, I know, it fretted me —

I chid thee mildly now and then —
No fault of mine — no blame to thee —

Women are women, men are men.

LORD RON ALUS WIFE 179

At first you smiled to see me frown,

And laughing leapt upon my knee,
And kiss'd the chiding shadow down,

And smooth'd my great beard merrily ;
But then a change came o'er you, Sweet !

You walk'd about with pensive head ;

You tried to read, and as you read
Patted your small impatient feet : —

' She is wiser now ! ' I smiling said . . .

And ere I doubted — you were dead.

VI

All this came back upon my brain

While I sat alone at your white bedside,
And I remember'd in my pain

Those words you spoke before you died —
For around my neck your arms you flung,

And smiled so sweet though death was near —
' I was so foolish and so young !

And yet I loved thee ! — kiss me, dear ! '
I put aside your golden hair,

And kiss'd you, and you went to sleep ;
And when I saw that death was there,

My grief was cold, I could not weep ;
And late last night, when you were dead,
I did not weep beside your bed,

180 LORD RONALD'S WLFE

For the curtains were white, and the pane was blue,
And the moon look'd through,
And its eye was red —

' How coldly she lies ! ' I said.

vir
Then loud, so loud, before I knew,
The gray and black cock scream'd and crew,
And I heard the far-off bells intone

So slowly, so slowly,
The black hound bark'd, and I rose with a groan,

As the village bells chimed slowly, slowly,
slowly.
I dropp'd the hand so cold and thin,

I gazed, and your face seem'd still and wise,
And I saw the damp dull dawn stare in

Like a dim drown'd face with oozy eyes \
And I open'd the lattice quietly,
And the cold wet air came in on me,
And I pluck'd two roses with fingers chill
From the roses that grew at your window-sill,
I pluck'd two roses, a white and a red,
Stole again to the side of your bed,
Raised the edge of your winding fold,

Dropp'd the roses upon your breast,
Cover'd them up in the balmy cold,

That none might know — and there they rest !

THE LAST OT THE HANGMEN:

A GROTESQUE

What place is snugger and more pretty
Than a gay green Inn outside the City,
To sit in an arbour in a garden,
With a pot of ale and a long churchwarden !

Amid the noise and acclamation,

He sits unknown, in meditation :

'Mid church-bells ringing and jingling glasses,

Snugly enough his Sunday passes.

Beyond the suburbs of the City, where
Cheap stucco'd villas on the brick-field stare,
Where half in town, half country, you espy
The hay-cart standing at the hostelry, —
Strike from the highway down a puddly lane,
Skirt round a market-garden, and you gain
A pastoral footpath, winding on for miles
By fair green fields and over country stiles ;
And soon, as you proceed, the busy sound
Of the dark City at your back is drowned,

1 82 THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN

The speedwell with its blue eye looks at you,
The yellow primrose glimmers through the dew ;
Out of the sprouting hedgerow at your side,
Instead of the town sparrow starveling-eyed,
The blackbird whistles and the finches sing ;
Instead of smoke, you breathe the pleasant Spring ;
And shading eyes dim from street dust you mark,
With soft pulsations soaring up, the Lark,
Till o'er your head, a speck against the gleam,
He sings, and the great City fades in dream !

Five miles the path meanders ; then again
You reach the road, but like a leafy lane
It wanders now ; and lo ! you stand before
A quaint old country Inn, with open door,
Fresh-watered troughs, and the sweet smell of hay.

And if, perchance, it be the seventh day —
Or any feast-day, calendar d or not —
Merry indeed will be this smiling spot ;
For on the neighbouring common will be seen
Groups from the City, romping on the green ;
The vans with gay pink curtains empty stand,
The horses graze unharness'd close at hand ;
Bareheaded wenches play at games in rings,
Or, strolling, swing their bonnets by the strings ;

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN 183

'Prentices, galloping with gasp and groan,

On donkeys ride, till out of breath, or thrown ;

False gipsies, with pale cheeks by juice stain'd brown,

And hulking loungers, gather from the town.

The fiddle squeaks, they dance, they sing, they play,

Waifs from the City casting care away,

And with the country smells and sights are blent

Loud town-bred oaths and urban merriment.

Ay ; and behind the Inn are gardens green,
And arbours snug, where families are seen
Tea-drinking in the shadow ; some, glad souls,
On the smooth-shaven carpet play at bowls ;
And half-a-dozen, rowing round and round,
Upon the shallow skating-pond are found,
And ever and anon will one of these
Upset, and stand there, wading to the knees,
Righting his crank canoe ! Down neighbouring walks
Go youthful lovers in delightful talks ;
While from the arbour-seats smile pleasantly
The older members of the company ;
And plump round matrons sweat in Paisley shawls,
And on the grass the crowing baby sprawls.

Now hither, upon such a festal day,
I from my sky-high lodging made my way,

1 84 THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN

And followed straggling feet with summer smile ;

' Jog on,' I sung, 'and merrily hent the stile,'

Until I reached the place of revelry ;

And there, hard by the groups who sat at tea,

But in a quiet arbour, cool and deep,

Around whose boughs white honeysuckles creep,

A Face I saw familiar to my gaze,

In scenes far different and on darker days : —

An aged man, with white and reverent hair,

Brow patriarchal yet deep-lined with care,

His melancholy eye, in a half dream,

Watching the groups with philosophic gleam ;

Decent his dress, of broadcloth black and clean,

Clean-starch'd his front, and dignified his mien.

His right forefinger busy in the bowl

Of a long pipe of clay, whence there did roll

A halo of gray vapour round his face,

He sat, like the white Genius of the place ;

And at his left hand on the table stood

A pewter-pot, filled up with porter good,

Which ever and anon, with dreamy gaze

And arm- sweep proud, he to his lips did raise.

'Twas Sunday ; and in melancholy swells
Came the low music of the still church-bells,

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN 185

Scarce audible, blown o'er the meadows green,
Out of the cloud of London dimly seen —
Whence, thro' the summer mist, at intervals,
We caught the far-off shadow of St. Paul's.

Silent he sat, unnoted in the crowd,
With all his greatness round him like a cloud,
Unknown, unwelcomed, unsuspected quite,
Smoking his pipe like any common wight ;
Cheerful, yet distant, patronising here
The common gladness from his prouder sphere.
Cold was his eye, and ominous now and then
The look he cast upon those merry men
Around him ; and, from time to time, sad-eyed,
He rolled his reverent head from side to side
With dismal shake ; and, his sad heart to cheer,
Hid his great features in the pot of beer.

When, with an easy bow and lifted hat,
I enter'd the green arbour where he sat,
And most politely him by name did greet,
He went as white as any winding-sheet !
Yea, trembled like a man whose lost eyes note
A pack of wolves upleaping at his throat !
But when, in a respectful tone and kind,
I tried to lull his fears and soothe his mind,

>6 THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN

And vowed the fact of his identity

Was as a secret wholly safe with me —

Explaining also, seeing him demur,

That / too was a public character —

The Great Unknown (as I shall call him here)

Grew calm, replenish'd soon his pot of beer

At my expense, and in a little while

His tongue began to wag, his face to smile ;

And in the simple self-revealing mode

Of all great natures heavy with the load

Of pride and power, he edged himself more near,

And poured his griefs and wrongs into mine ear.

' Well might I be afraid, and sir to you !
They 'd tear me into pieces if they knew, —
For quiet as they look, and bright, and smart,
Each chap there has a tiger in his heart !
At play they are, but wild beasts all the same —
Not to be teased although they look so tame ;
And many of them, plain as eye can trace,
Have got my 'scutcheon figured on the face.
It 's all a matter of mere destiny
Whether they go all right or come to me :
Mankind is bad, sir, naturally bad ! '

And as he shook his head with omen sad,
I answered him, in his own cynic strain :

THE LAST 01- THE HANGME 187

. Ss, 'tis enough to make a man complain.
This world of ours so vicious is and low,
It always treats its Benefactors so.
If people had their rights, and rights were clear,
You would not sit unknown, unhonour'd, here ;
But all would bow to you, and hold you great,
The first and mightiest member of the State.
Who is the inmost wheel of the machine ?
Who keeps the Constitution sharp and clean ?
Who finishes what statesmen only plan,
And keeps the whole game going? You're the Man !
At one end of the State the eye may view
Her Majesty, and at the other— jw/y
And of the two, both precious, I aver,
They seem more ready to dispense with her ! '

The Great Man watched me with a solemn look,
Then from his lips the pipe he slowly took,
And answered gruffly, in a whisper hot :

' I don't know if you 're making game or not :
But, dash my buttons, tho'" you put it strong,
It 's my opinion you 're more right than wrong !
There 's not another man this side the sea
Can settle off the State's account like me.
The work from which all other people shrink
Comes natural to me as meat and drink, —

88 THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN

All neat, all clever, all perform'd so pat,

It 's quite an honour to be hung like that !

People don't howl and bellow when they meet

The Sheriff or the Gaoler in the street ;

They never seem to long in their mad fits

To tear the Home Secretary into bits ;

When Judges in white hats to Epsom Down

Drive gay as Tom and Jerry, folk don't frown ;

They cheer the Queen and Royal Family ;

But only let them catch a sight of me,

And like a pack of hounds they howl and storm !

And that 's their gratitude ; 'cause I perform,

In genteel style and in a first-rate way,

The work they 're making for me night and day !

Why, if a mortal had his rights, d' ye see,

I should be honour'd as I ought to be —

They 'd pay me well for doing what I do,

And touch their hats whene'er I came in view.

Well, after all, they do as they are told ;

They 're less to blame than Government, I hold.

Government sees my value, and it knows

I keep the whole game going as it goes,

And yet it holds me down and makes me cheap,

And calls me in at odd times like a sweep

To clean a dirty chimney. Let it smoke,

And every mortal in the State must choke !

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN 189

And yet, though always ready at the call,
I get no gratitude, no thanks at all.
Instead of rank, I get a wretched fee,
Instead of thanks, a sneer or scowl may-be,
Instead of honour such as others win,
Why, I must hide away to save my skin.
When I am sent for to perform my duty,
Instead of coming in due state and beauty,
With outriders and dashing grays to draw
(Like any other mighty man of law),
Disguised, unknown, and with a guilty cheek,
The gaol I enter like an area sneak !
And when all things have been performed with art
(With my young man to do the menial part)
Again out of the dark, when none can see,
I creep unseen to my obscurity ! '

His vinous cheek with virtuous wrath was flushed,
And to his nose the purple current rushed,
While with a hand that shook a little now,
He mopp'd the perspiration from his brow,
Sighing; and on his features I descried
A sparkling tear of sorrow and of pride.
Meantime, around him all was mirth and May,
The sport was merry and all hearts were gay,

i go THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN

The green boughs sparkled back the merriment,
The garden honeysuckle scatter'd scent,
The warm girls giggled and the lovers squeezed,
The matrons drinking tea look'd on full pleased,
And far away the church-bells sad and slow
Ceased on the scented air. But still the woe
Grew on the Great Man's face — the smiling sky,
The light, the pleasure, on his fish-like eye
Fell colourless ; — at last he spoke again,
Growing more philosophic in his pain :

' Two sorts of people fill this mortal sphere,
Those who are hung, and those who just get clear ;
And I 'm the schoolmaster (tho' you may laugh),
Teaching good manners to the second half.
Without my help to keep the scamps in awe,
You 'd have no virtue and you 'd know no law ;
And now they only hang for blood alone,
Ten times more hard to rule the mob have grown.
I 've heard of late some foolish folk have plannd
To put an end to hanging in the land ;
But, Lord ! how little do the donkeys know
This world of ours, when they talk nonsense so !
It 's downright blasphemy ! You might as well
Try to get rid at once of Heaven and Hell !
Mankind is bad, sir, naturally bad,
Both rich and poor, man, woman, sad, or glad !

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN 191

While some to keep scot-free have got the wit
(Not that they 're really better — devil a bit !),
Others have got my mark so plain and fair
In both their eyes, I stop, and gape, and stare.
Look at that fellow stretch'd upon the green,
Strong as a bull, though only seventeen ;
Bless you, I know the party every limb,
I 've hung a tew facsimiles of him !
And cast your eye on that pale wench who sips
Gin in the corner ; note her hanging lips,
The neat-shaped boots, and the neglected lace :
There 's baby-murder written on her face ! —
Tho' accidents may happen now and then,
I know my mark on women and on men.
And oft I sigh, beholding it so plain,
To think what heaps of labour still remain ! '

He sigh'd, and yet methought he smackt his lips,
As one who in anticipation sips
A feast to come. Then I, with a sly thought,
Drew forth a picture I had lately bought
In F.egent Street, and begged the man of fame
To give his criticism on the same.
First from their case his spectacles he took,
Great silver-rimm'd, and with deep searching look
The picture's lines in silence pondered he.

192 THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN

1 This is as bad a face as ever I see !
This is no common area-sneak or thief,
No stealer of a pocket-handkerchief,
No ! deep 's the word, and knowing, and precise,
Afraid of nothing, but as cool as ice.
Look at his ears, how very low they lie,
Lobes far below the level of his eye,
And there 's a mouth, like any rat-trap's tight,
And at the edges bloodless, close, and white.
Who is the party ? Caught, on any charge ?
There 's mischief near, if he remains at large ! '

Gasping with indignation, angry-eyed,
'Silence ! 'tis very blasphemy,' I cried;
' Misguided man, whose insight is a sham,
These noble features you would brand and damn,
This saintly face, so subtle, calm, and high,
Are those of one who would not wrong a fly —
A friend of man, whom all man's sorrows stir,
'Tis Mr. Blank, the great Philosopher ! '

•Then for a moment he to whom I spake
Seemed staggered, but, with the same ominous shake
O' the head, he, rallying, wore a smile half kind,
Pitying my simplicity of mind.

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN 193

' Sir,' said he, ' from my word I will not stir —
I 've seen that look on many a murderer ;
But don't mistake — it stands to common sense
That education makes the difference !
I 've heard the party's name, and know that he
Is a good pleader for my trade and me ;
And well he may be ! for a clever man
Sees pretty well what others seldom can, —
That those mark'd qualities which make him great
In one way, might by just a turn of fate
Have raised him in another ! Ah, it 's sad —
Mankind is bad, sir, naturally bad !
It takes a genius in our busy time
To plan and carry out a bit of crime
That shakes the land and raises up one's hair ;
Most murder now is but a poor affair —
No art, no cunning, just a few blind blows
Struck by a bullet-headed rough who knows
No better. Clever men now see full plain
That crime don't answer. Thanks to me, again !
Ah, when I think what would become of men
Without my bit of schooling now and then, —
To teach the foolish they must mind their play,
And keep the clever under every day, —

I shiver ! As it is, they're kept by me
To decent sorts of daily villany —

II o

I94 THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN

Law, money-lending, factoring on the land,
Share-broking, banking with no cash in hand,
And many a sort of weapon they may use
Which never brings their neck into the noose ;
Ay, if they're talented they can invent
Plenty of crime that gets no punishment,
Do lawful murder with no sort of fear
As coolly as I drink this pot of beer ! '

The Great Man paused and drank ; his face was grim,
Half buried in the pot ; and o'er its rim
His eye, like the law's bull's-eye, flashing bright
To deepen darkness round it, threw its light
On the gay scene before him, and it seemed
Rendered all wretched near it as it gleamed.
A shadow fell upon the merry place,
Each figure grew distorted, and each face
Spake of crime hidden and of evil thought.
Darkling I gazed, sick-hearted and distraught,
In silence. Black and decent at my side,
With reverent hair, sat melancholy-eyed
The Patriarch. To my head I held my hand,
And ponder'd, and the look of the fair land
Seemed deathlike. On the darkness of my brain
The voice, a little thicker, broke again :

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN i95

' Ah, tilings don't thrive as they throve once,' he said,
' And I'm alone now my old woman's dead.
I find the Sundays dull. First, I attend
The morning service, then this way I wend
To take my pipe and drop of beer ; and then,
Home to a lonely meal in town again.
'Tis a dull world ! — and grudges me my hire —
I ought to get a pension and retire.
What living man has served his country so ?
But who 's to take my place I scarcely know !
Ah, Heaven will punish their neglect anon : —
They '11 know my merit, when I 'm dead and gone ! '

He stood upon his legs, and these, I think,
Were rather shaky, part with age, part drink,
And with a piteous smile, full of the sense
Of human vanity and impotence,
Grimly he stood, half senile and half sly,
A sight to make the very angels cry ;
Then lifted up a hat with weepers on —
(Worn for some human creature dead and gone)
Placing it on his head (unconsciously
A little on one side) held out to me
His right hand, and, though grim beyond belief,
Wore unaware an air of rakish grief —
o 2

196 THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN

Even so we parted, and with hand-wave proud
He faded like a ghost into the crowd.

Home to the mighty City wandering,
Breathing the freshness of the fields of Spring,
Hearing the lark, and seeing bright winds run
Between the bending rye-grass and the sun,
I mused and mused ; till with a solemn gleam
My soul closed, and I saw as in a dream,
Apocalyptic, cutting heaven across,
Two mighty shapes — a Gallows and a Cross.
And these twain, with a sea of lives that clomb
Up to their base and struck and fell in foam,
Moved, trembled, changed ; and lo ! the first became
A jet-black Shape that bowed its head in shame
Before the second, which in turn did change
Into a luminous Figure, sweet and strange,
Stretching out mighty arms to bless the thing
Which hushed its breath beneath Him wondering.
And lo ! these visions vanished with no word
In brightness ; and like one that wakes I heard
The church bells chime and the cathedrals toll,
Filling the mighty City like its Soul.-

Then, like a spectre strange and woe-begone,
Uprose again, with mourning weepers on,

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN 197

His hat a little on one side, his breath
Heavy and hot, the gray-hair'd Man of Death,
Tottering, grog-pimpled, with a trembling pace
Under the Gateway of the Silent Place,
At whose sad opening the great Puppet stands
The rope of which he tugs with palsied hands.

Christ help me ! whither do my wild thoughts run ?
And Christ help thee, thou lonely aged one !
Christ help us all, till all that 's dark grows clear —
Are those indeed the Sabbath bells I hear?

LYRICAL POEMS

PASTORAL PICTURES

i

DOWN THE RIVER

How merry a life the little River leads,
Piping a vagrant ditty free from care ;
Now rippling as it rustles through the reeds
And broad-leaved lilies sailing here and there,
Now lying level with the clover meads
And musing in a mist of silver air !
Bearing a pastoral peace where'er it goes,
Narrow'd to mirth or broaden'd to repose :
Through copsy villages and tiny towns,
By belts of woodland singing sweet,
Pausing where sun and shadow meet
Without the darkness of the breezy downs,
Bickering o'er the keystone as it flows
'Neath mossy bridges arch'd like maiden feet ;
And slowly widening as it seaward goes,
Because its summer mission grows complete.

)2 PASTORAL PICTURES

Run seaward, for I follow !

Let me cross
My garden-threshold ankle-deep in moss.
Sweet Stream, your heart is beating and I hear it,
As conscious of its pleasure as a girl's :
O little River, whom I love so well,
Is it with something of a human spirit
You twine those lilies in your sedgy curls ?
Take up the inner voice we both inherit,
O little River of my love, and tell !

The rain has crawled from yonder mountain-side,
And passing, left its footprints far and wide.
The path I follow winds by cliff and scar,
Purple and dark and trodden as I pass,
The foxglove droops, the crocus lifts its star,
And bluebells brighten in the dewy grass.
Over deep pools the willow hangs its hair,
Dwarf birches show their sodden roots and shake
Their melting jewels on my bending brows,
The mottled mavis pipes among their boughs
For joy of five unborn in yonder brake.
The River, narrow'd to a woody glen,
Leaps trembling o'er a little rocky ledge,
Then broadens forward into calm again

PASTORAL PICTURES 203

Where the gray moor-hen builds her nest of sedge ;
Caught in the dark those willow-trees have made,
Lipping the yellow lilies o'er and o'er,
It flutters twenty feet along the shade,
Halts at the sunshine like a thing afraid,
And turns to kiss the lilies yet once more.

Those little falls are lurid with the rain
That ere the day is done will come again.
The River falters swoll'n and brown,
Falters, falters, as it nears them,
Shuddering back as if it fears them,
Falters, falters, falters, falters,
Then dizzily rushes down.

But all is calm again, the little River

Smiles on and sings the song it sings for ever.

Here at the curve it passes tilth and farm,

And faintly flowing onward to the mill

It stretches out a little azure arm

To aid the miller, aiding with a will,

And singing, singing still.

Sweet household sounds come sudden on mine ear :

The waggons rumbling in the rutted lanes,

The village clock and trumpet Chanticleer,

The flocks and cattle on the marish-plains,

204 PASTORAL PICTURES

With shouts of urchins ringing loud and clear ;
And lo ! a Village, breathing breath that curls
In foam-white wreaths through ancient sycamores !
A hum of looms comes through the cottage doors.
I stumble on a group of country girls
Faring afield thro ' deep and dewy grass ;
Small urchins rush from sanded kitchen-floors
To stare with mouths wide open as I pass.

But yonder cottage where the woodbine grows,
Half cottage and half inn, a pretty place,
Tempts ramblers with the country cheer it shows ;
Entering, I rob the threshold of a rose,
And meet the welcome on a mother's face.
Come, let me sit. The scent of garden flowers
Flits through the casement of the sanded room,
Hitting the sense with thoughts of summer hours
When half the world has budded into bloom.
Is that the faded picture of our host
Shading the plate of pansies where I sit —
That lean-limb'd stripling straighter than a post,
Clad in a coat that seems a sorry fit ?
I drink his health in this his own October,
That bites so sharply on the thirsty tongue ;
And here he comes, but not so slim and sober
As in the days when Love and he were young.

PASTORAL PICTURES 205

4 Hostess ! ' I fill again and pledge the glory
Of that stout angel answering to my call,
AVho changed him from the shadow on the wall
Into the rosy tun of sack before me !

Again I follow where the river wanders.
The landscape billows into hills of thyme ;
Over the purple heights I slowly climb ;
Till in a glen of birchen-trees and boulders
I halt, beneath a heathery mountain ridge
Clothed on with amber cloud from head to shoulders.

1 wander on and gain a mossy bridge,
And watch the angling of a shepherd boy ;
Below the little river glimmers by,
Touched with a troubled sense of pain or joy
By some new life at work in earth and sky.
The marshes there steam mist from hidden springs,
Deep-hidden in the marsh the bittern calls,
And yonder swallow oils its ebon wings
While fluttering o'er the falls.
Below my feet the little budding flower
Thrusts up dark leaves to feel the coming shower :
I'll trust these weather-signs and creep apart
Beneath this crag until the rain depart, —
Twill come again and go within an hour.

2o6 PASTORAL PICTURES

The moist soft wind has died and fallen now,

The air is hot and hush'd on flower and tree,

The leaves are troubled into sighs, and see !

There falls a heavy drop upon my brow.

The cloudy standard is above unfurl'd ;

The aspen fingers of the blinded Rain

Feel for the summer eyelids of the world

That she may kiss them open once again.

Darker and darker, till with one accord

The clouds pour forth their hoard in gusts of power,

A sunbeam rends their bowels like a sword

And frees the costly shower !

Fluttering around me and before me,
Stretched like a mantle o'er me,
The rushing shadows blind the earth and skies,
Dazzling a darkness on my gazing eyes
With troublous gleams of radiance, like the bright
Pigments of gold that flutter in our sight,
When with shut eyes we strain
Our aching vision back upon the brain.

Across the skies and o'er the plain
Fast fly the swollen shadows of the Rain ;
Blown duskly by,
From hill to hill they fly,

PASTORAL PICTURES 207

O'er solitary streams and windy downs,
O'er trembling villages and darkened towns.

I crouch beneath the crag and watch the mist

Move on the skirts of yonder mountains gray

Until it bubbles into amethyst

And softly melts away.

The thyme-bells catch their drops of silver dew,

And quake beneath the load ;

The squadron'd pines that shade the splashing road

Are glimmering with a million jewels too.

And hark ! the Spirit of the Rain

Sings to the Summer sleeping,

Pressing a dark damp face against the plain,

And pausing, pausing, not for pain,

Pausing, pausing, ere the low refrain,

Because she cannot sing for weeping.

She flings her cold dim arms about the Earth,

That soon shall wear the blessing she has given,

Then brightens thro' her tears in sunny mirth

And flutters back to heaven.

A fallen sunbeam trembles at my feet,
And as I sally forth the linnets frame
Their throats to answer yonder laverock sweet.
The jewell'd trees flash out in emerald flame

208 PASTORAL PICTURES

The bright drops fall with throbs of peaceful sound.
And melt in circles on the shallow pools
That glisten on the ground.
Last, Iris issues from her cloudy shrine,
Trembling alone in heaven where she rules,
And arching down to kiss with kisses sweet
The bright green world that flashes at her feet,
Runs liquid through her many hues divine.

PASTORAL PTCTUl 209

THE SUMMER POOL

There is a singing in the summer air,
The blue and brown moths flutter o'er the grass,
The stubble bird is creaking in the wheat,
And perch'd upon the honeysuckle-hedge
Pipes the green linnet. Oh, the golden world !
The stir of life on every blade of grass,
The motion and the joy on every bough,
The glad feast everywhere, for things that love
The sunshine, and for things that love the shade !

Aimlessly wandering with weary feet,
Watching the wool-white clouds that wander by,
I come upon a lonely place of shade, —
A still green Pool, where with soft sound and stir
The shadows of o'erhanging branches sleep,
Save where they leave one dreamy space of blue,
O'er whose soft stillness ever and anon
The feathery chirms blows. Here unaware

o PASTORAL PICTURES

I pause, and leaning on my staff I add

A shadow to the shadows ; and behold !

Dim dreams steal down upon me, with a hum

Of little wings, a murmuring of boughs, —

The dusky stir and motion dwelling here,

Within this small green world. O'ershadowed

By dusky greenery, tho' all around

The sunshine throbs on fields of wheat and bean,

Downward I gaze into the dreamy blue,

And pass into a waking sleep, wherein

The green boughs rustle, feathery wreaths of cloud

Pass softly, piloted by golden airs :

The air is still, — no birds sing any more, —

And, helpless as a tiny flying thing,

I am alone in all the world with God,

The wind dies — not a leaf stirs — on the Pool

The fly scarce moves ; earth seems to hold her breath

Until her heart stops, listening silently

For the far footsteps of the coining Rain !

While thus I pause, it seems that I have gained
New eyes to see ; my brain grows sensitive
To trivial things that, at another hour,
Had passed unheeded. Suddenly the air
Shivers, the shadows in whose midst I stand

PASTORAL PICTURES :

Tremble and blacken — the blue eye o' the Pool
Is closed and clouded ; with a sudden gleam,
Oiling its wings, a swallow darteth past,
And weedling flowers beneath my feet thrust up
Their leaves to feel the fragrant shower. Oh hark !
The thirsty leaves are troubled into sighs,
And up above me, on the glistening boughs.
Patters the summer Rain !

Into a nook,
Screen'd by thick foliage of oak and beech,
I creep for shelter ; and the summer shower
Murmurs around me. Oh, the drowsy sounds !
The pattering rain, the numerous sigh of leaves,
The deep, warm breathing of the scented air,
Sink sweet into my soul — until at last
Comes the soft ceasing of the gentle fall,
And lo ! the eye of blue within the Pool
Opens again, while with a silvern gleam
Dew-diamonds twinkle moistly on the leaves,
Or, shaken downward by the summer wind,
Fall melting on the Pool in rings of light !

2i2 PASTORAL PICTURES

III

UP THE RIVER

Behind the purple mountains lies a lake,
Steadfast thro' storm and sunshine in its place ;
Asleep 'neath changing skies, its waters make
A mirror for tire tempest's thunder-face ;

Thence — singing songs of glee,

Fluttering to my cottage by the sea,
By bosky glen and grove,
Past the lone shepherd, moveless as the rock
Whence stretch'd at length he views his scatter'd flock-
Cometh the little River that I love.

To-day I '11 bid farewell to books,
And by the River loved so well,
Thro' ferny haunts and flowery nooks,
Thro' stony glen and woody dell,
The rainy river-path I '11 take,
Till by the silent-sleeping lake
I hear the shepherd's bell.

PASTORAL PICTURES

The summer bleats from every rocky height,
The bluebell banks are dim with dewy light,

The heavens are clear as infants' eyes above ;
This is no day— you, little River, know it !—
For sage or poet
To localise his love.
In rippling cadence, calm and slow,
Sing, little River, as I go,
Songs of the mountains whence you flow.

The grassy banks are wet with dew that flashes

Silverly on the Naiad-river's lashes—

The Naiad-river, bright with sunken suns,

Who murmureth as she runs.

Yonder the silver-bellied salmon splashes

Within the spreading circle of blue shade

That his own leaps have made :

And here I stoop, and pluck with tender care

A lily from the Naiad's sedgy hair.

And curling softly over pebble,

Weaving soft waves o'er yellow sands,

Singing her song in tinkling treble,

The mountain Lady thro' the farmer's lands

Slides to the sea, with harvest-giving hands.

214 PASTORAL PICTURES

Here freckled cowslips bloom unsought,
Like yellow jewels on her light green train ;
And yonder, dark with dreaming of the rain,
( irows the wood- violet like a lowly thought.
Lightly the mountain Lady dances down,
Dressed maidenly in many a woodland gem ; —
Lo, even where the footprint of the clown
Has bruised her raiment-hem,
Crimson-tipp'd daisies make a diadem.

The little River is the fittest singer

To sound the praises of a day so fair.

The dews, suck'd up thro' pores of sunshine, linger

A.s silver cloudlets in mid-air ;

And over all the sunshine throws

Its golden glamour of repose.

The Silence listens, in a dream,

To hear the ploughman urge his reeling team,

The trout, that flashes with a sudden gleam,

And musical motions heaved by hills that bound

The slumberous vales around.

I loiter onward slowly, and the whole
Sweet joy is in my happy fancies drowned.
The sunshine meets the music. Sight and sound

Are wedded by the Soul.

PASTORAL PICTURES 215

— Sing, little River, this sweet mom,
Songs of the hills where thou wert born !

For, suddenly, mine eyes perceive
The purple hills that touch the sky:
Familiar with the stars of eve,

1 nst the pale blue West they lie,
Netted in mists of azure air,
With thread-like cataracts here and there.
Oh hark ! Oh hark ! :

The shepherd shouts, and answering sheep-dogs bark ;
And voices, startling Echo from her sleep,
Are blown from steep to steep.

At yonder falls, the trembling mountain Lady
Clings to the bramble high above me lying,
With veil of foam behind her swift feet flying,
And a lorn terror in her lifted voice,
Ere springing to the rush-friezed basin shady,

That boils below with noise.
Then, whirling dizzily for a moment's space,
She lets the sun flash brightly on her face,
And lightly laughs at her own terror past,
And floateth onward fast.

216 PASTORAL PICTURES

Thus wandering onward, ankle-deep in grass,

Scaring the cumbrous black cock as I pass,

I come upon two shepherd boys, who wade

For coolness in the limpid waves,

And with their shade

Startle the troutling from its shallow caves.

Let me lie down upon the bank, and drink !
The minnows at the brim, with bellies white
Upturned in specks of silvery light,

Flash from me in a shower, and sink.

Below, the blue skies wink

Thro' heated golden air — a clear abyss
Of azure, with a solitary bird
Steadfastly winging thro' the depths unstirred.

The brain turns dizzy with its bliss ;

And I would plunge into the chasms cool,
And float to yonder cloud of fleecy wool,

That floats below me, as I kiss

The mountain Lady's lips with thirsty mouth.

AVhat would parch'd Dives give amid his drouth

For kisses such as this ?

Sing, little River, while I rest,
Songs of your hidden mountain nest,
And of the blue sky in your breast !

PASTORAL PICTURES 217

The landscape darkens slowly

With mountain shadows ; when I wander on,

The tremulous gladness of the heart seems gone,
And a cool awe spreads round me, sweet and holy, —
A tender, sober-suited melancholy.
The path rough feet have made me winds away
O'er fenny meadows to the white highway,

Where the big waggon clatters with its load,
And pushing onward, to the ankles wet
In swards as soft as silken sarcenet,

I gain the dusty road.

The air is hotter here. The bee booms by

With honey-laden thigh,

Doubling the heat with sounds akin to heat ;

And like a floating flower the butterfly
Swims upward, downward, till its feet
Cling to the hedgerows white and sweet.

A black duck rises clumsily with a cry,

And the dim lake is nigh.
The road curves upward to a dusty rise,
Where fall the sunbeams flake on flake ;
And turning at the curve, mine eyes
Fall sudden on the silent lake,
Asleep 'neath hyacinthine skies.

2i8 PASTORAL PICTURES

Sing, little River, in your mirth,
Sing to thyself for joy the earth
Is smiling on your humble worth ;
And sing for joy that earth has given
A place of birth so near to heaven !
Sing, little River, while I climb
These little hills of rock and thyme,
And hear far-off your tinkling chime !

The cataracts burst in foamy sheen ;
The hills slope blackly to the water's brim,
And far below I see their shadows dim ;

The lake, so closely hemmed between
Their skirts of heather and of grass,
Grows black and cold beneath me as I pass.

The sunlight fades on mossy rocks,
And on the mountain sides the flocks

Are spilt like streams ;— the highway dips
Down, narrowing to the path where lambs
Lay to the udders of their dams

Their soft and pulpy lips.
The hills grow closer ; to the right
The path sweeps round a shadowy bay,
Upon whose slated fringes, white
And crested wavelets play.

PASTORAL PICTURES 219

All else is still. But list, oh list !

Hidden by boulders and by mist,

A shepherd whistles in his fist ;

From height to height the far sheep bleat

In answering iteration sweet.

Sound, seeking Silence, bends above her,

Within some haunted mountain grot ;

Kisses her, like a trembling lover —

So that she stirs in sleep, but wakens not !

Along this rock I '11 lie,

With face turned upward to the sky.

A dreamy numbness glows within my brain —

It is not joy and is not pain —

Tis like the solemn, sweet imaginings

That cast a shade on Music's golden wings.

With face turned upward to the sun,

I lie as indolent as one

Who, in a vision sweet, perceives

Spirits thro' mists of lotus leaves ;

And now and then small shadows move
Across me, cast by clouds so small
Mine eyes perceive them scarce at all

In the unsullied blue above.
I hear the streams that burst and fall,
The straggling shepherd's frequent call,

PASTORAL PICTURES

The kine low bleating as they pass,
The dark lake stirring with the breeze,
The melancholy hum of bees,

The very murmur of the grass.

PASTORAL PICTURES

IV

SNOW

I wander forth this chill December dawn :
John Frost and all his elves are out, I see,
As busy as the elfin world can be,
Clothing a world asleep with fleecy lawn.
"Mid the blue silence of the evening hours
They glimmered duskly down in silent showers,
And featly have they laboured all night long,
Cheering their labour with a half-heard rhyme —
Low as the burthen of a milkmaid's song
When Echo moans it over hills of thyme.

There is a hush of music on the air —

The white-wing'd fays are faltering everywhere ;

And here and there,

Made by a sudden mingling as they fall,

There comes a softer lullaby than all,

Swept in upon the universal prayer.

!2 PASTORAL PICTURES

Mine eyes and heart are troubled with a motion
Of music like the moving waves of ocean,
When, out of hearing, o'er the harbour bars
They sigh toward the moon and jasper stars.
The tiny squadrons waver down and thicken,
Gathering numbers as they fly,

And nearing earth their thick-set ranks they quicken,
And swim in swarms to die !

But now the clouds are winnowed away :

The sky above is gray as glass ; below

The feeble twilight of the dreamy day

Nets the long landskip hush'd beneath the snow.

The arrowy frosts sting keenly as I stray

Along the rutted lane or broad highway,

Past wind-swept hedges sighing sharp and clear,

Where half the sweetly changeful year

The scented summer loves to gleam and glow.

The new-lain snowy carpet, ankle-deep,

Crumbles beneath my footsteps as I pass,

Revealing scanty blades of frozen grass ;

On either side the chirping sparrows leap,

And here and there a robin, friendly now,

From naked bough to bough.

That snow-clad homestead in the river's ami

PA S TO A'. I L PIC TUKES

Is haunted with the noisy rooks that fly
Between its leafless beeches and the sky,
And hailing fast for yonder fallow farm,

litary crow is plunging by.
Light muffled winds arising high among
White mountains brooding in their winter rest.
Bear from the eastern winter to the West
The muttered diapason of a song
Made by the thunder on a mountain's breast.

The sun is hanging in a purple globe,

'Mid yellow mists that stir with silver breath :

The little landskip slumbers, white as death,

Amid its naked fields and woody wolds,

Wearing the winter as a stainless robe

Low-trailing in a fall of fleecy folds.

By pasture -gates the mottled cattle swarm,

Thick'ning the misty air, with piteous eyes

Fixed ever on the tempest-breeding skies,

And watch the lingering traces of the storm.

A feeble sunbeam kisses and illumes

Von whitened spire that hints a hidden town,

And flickering for a space it darkens down

Above the silence of forgotten tombs.

I gain the shoulder of the woodland now,
A fledgling's flutter from a small hill's brow.

224 PASTORAL PICTURES

I see the hamlet, half a mile below,

With dripping gables and with crimson panes,

And watch the urchins in the narrow lanes

Below the school-house, shouting in the snow.

The whitened coach comes swiftly round the road

With horns to which a dozen hills reply,

And rattling onward with its laughing load,

Halts steaming at the little hostelry.

Hard by the lonely woodman pants and glows,

And, wrapt in leather stockings to the thigh,

Toils with an icicle beneath his nose.

In yonder field an idle farm-boy blows

His frozen fingers into tingling flame ;

The gaunt old farmer, as he canters by,

Reins in to greet the country clowns by name ;

That chestnut pony in the yellow fly

Draws the plump parson and his leaner dame.

I loiter down the road, and feel the ground

Like iron 'neath my heel ; the windless air

Seems lying in a swound.

Frost follows in its path without a sound,

And plies his nimble fingers everywhere,

Under my eyelids and beneath my hair.

Yon mountain dons once more its helm of cloud,

The air grows dark and dim as if in wonder ;

PASTORAL PICTURES 225

Once more the heaven is winnow'd, and the crowd
Of silken fays flock murmurously under
A sky that flutters like a wind-swept shroud.

Through gloomy dimbles, clad with new-fall'n snow.
Back to my little cottage home I go.
But once again I roam by field and flood,
Stung into heat where hoar-frosts melt and bite,
What time the fog-wrapt sun drops red as blood,
And Eve's white star is tingling into sight.

II

226

UNDERTONES:

GREEK SHAPES AND SUMMER FANCIES

In the greenwood resting still,

Idly, gladly, with no will,

Watching clouds and flowers and trees

In a warm poetic ease,

Fresh from college, full of joy,

With a book, now broods the Boy ;

And the waters and the skies,

And the earth on which he lies,

Yield to him their spirit-show

As in Hellas long ago ;

And the Boy's soul enters each

Fair sweet spirit, and finds speech,

Flitting fast from gleam to gleam

Of a fair Hellenic dream.

THE SATYR

What is he first ?
The fleet Faun, nurst

In sylvan gloom and glee ;
He lies by the stream,
In a summer dream,

Under the greenwood tree.

UWDERTOXES 227

The trunk of this tree,

Dusky-leaved, shaggy-rooted,

Is a pillow well suited
To a being like me,

Goat-bearded, goat-footed ;
For the boughs of the glade

Meet above me, and throw
A cool pleasant shade

On the greenness below ;
Dusky and brown'd

Close the leaves all around ;
And yet, all the while,

Thro' the boughs I can see
A star, with a smile,

Looking at me.

All day long,

I run about
With a madcap throng,

And laugh and shout.
Silenus grips

My" ears, and strides
On my shaggy hips,

Q 2

2 2 S UNDER TONES

And up and down
In an ivy crown
Tipsily rides ;
And when in a dose
His eyelids close,

Off he tumbles, and I
Can his wine-skin steal,
I drink — and feel

The grass roll — sea-high !
Then with shouts and yells,
Down mossy dells,
I stagger after

The wood-nymphs fleet,
Who with mocking laughter

And smiles retreat ;
And just as I clasp
A yielding waist,
With a cry embraced,

Gush ! it glides from my grasp

With a gurgle cool,

And — bubble ! trouble !
Seeing double !
I stumble and gasp
In some icy pool I

UNDERTONES 229

III
All suborn me,
Flout me, scorn me !
Drunken joys
And cares are mine,
Romp and noise,

And the dregs of wine
And whene'er in the night

Diana glides by

The spot where I lie,
With her maids green-dight

I must turn my back
In a rude affright,

And blindly fly

From her shining track ;
Or if only I hear
Her bright footfall near,

Fall with face to the grass,
Not breathing for fear

Till I feel her pass.

IV

I am —

I know not what :
Neither what I am,

Nor what I am not —

230 UNDERTONES

I seem to have rollick'd,

And frolick'd,
In this wood for aye,

With a beast's delight,
Romping all day,

Dreaming all night !
Yet I seem

To remember awaking

Just here, and aching

With the last forsaking
Tender gleam
Of a droll strange dream. —
When I lay at mine ease,

With a sense at my heart

Of being a part
Of the grass and trees
And the scented earth,

And of drinking the bright

Subdued sunlight
With a leafy mirth :
Then behold, I could see

A wood-nymph peeping
Out of her tree,

And closer creeping,
Timorously
Looking at me !

UNDERTONES 231

So still, so still,
I lay until

She trembled close to me,

Soft as a rose to me,
Then I leapt with a thrill

And a shout, and I threw
Arms around her, and press'd her,
Kiss'd her, caress'd her, —

Ere she scream'd, and flew.

Then I was 'ware

Of a power I had —
To drink the air,

Laugh and shout,
Run about,

And be consciously glad-
So I follow'd the maiden

'Neath shady eaves,
Thro' groves deep-laden

With fruit and leaves,
Till, drawing near
To a brooklet clear,
I shuddering fled

UNDERTONES

From the monstrous Shape
There mirrored —
Which seem'd to espy me,

And grin and gape,
And leap up high
In the air with a cry,
And fly me I

VI

Whence I seem to have slowly

Grown conscious of being
A thing wild, unholy,

And foul to the seeing. —
But ere I knew aught

Of others like me,
I would lie, fancy-fraught,
In the greenness of thought,

Beneath a green tree ;
And seem to be deep

In the scented earth-shade

'Neath the grass of the glade,
In a strange half-sleep :
When the wind seem'd to move me,

The cool rain to kiss,
The sunlight to love me,

The stars in their bliss

UNDERTONES 233

To tingle above me ;

And I crept thro' deep bowers

That were sparkling with showers

And sprouting for pleasure,
And I quicken'd the flowers

To a joy without measure —
Till my sense seem'd consuming

With warmth, and, upspringing,
I saw the flowers blooming,

And heard the birds singing !

VII

Wherever I range,

Thro' the greenery,
That vision strange,

Whatsoever it be,

Is a part of me
Which suffers not change. —
The changes of earth,

Water, air, ever-stirring,

Disturb me, conferring
My sadness or mirth :
Wheresoever I run,
I drink strength from the sun ;

234 UNDER TONES

The wnd stirs my veins

With the leaves of the wood,
The dews and the rains

Mingle into my blood.
I stop short
In my sport,

Panting, and cower,
While the blue skies darken

With a sunny shower ;
And I lie and hearken,

In a balmy pain,
To the tinkling clatter,
Pitter, patter,

Of the rain
On the leaves close to me,

While sweet thrills pass
Thro' and thro' me,

Till I tingle, like grass.
When Lightning with noise

Tears the wood's green ceiling,
When the black sky's voice

Is terribly pealing,
I hide me, hide me, hide me,

With wild averted face,

In some terror-stricken place,
While flowers and trees beside me,

UNDERTONES 235

And every streamlet near,
Darken, whirl, and wonder,
Above, around, and under,
And murmur back the thunder

In a palpitating fear !

VIII

Ay ; and when the earth turns

A soft bosom of balm
To the darkness that yearns

Above it, and grows

To dark, dewy, and calm
Repose, —
I, apart from rude riot,
Partake of the quiet

The night is bequeathing,
Lie, unseen and unheard,
In the greenness just stirr'd

By its own soft breathing —
And my heart then thrills

With a strange sensation
Like the purl of rills
Down moonlit hills

That loom afar,
With a sweet sensation
Like the palpitation

Of yonder Star !

236 UNDERTONES

IX
— Did she hear me, I wonder? —

She trembles upon

Her throne — and is gone !
The boughs darken under,

Then thrill, and are stirr'd

By the notes of a bird.
The green grass brightens

With pearly dew,
And the whole wood whitens

As the dawn creeps thro'. —
* Hoho ! ' — that shout
Flung the echoes about

The boughs, like balls !
Who calls ? —
'Tis the noisy rout
Of my fellows upspringing

From sleep and dreaming,
To the birds' shrill singing,

The day's soft beaming :
And they madly go
To and fro,

Though o' nights they are dumb.
Hoho ! hoho \

I come ! I come !

UNDERTONES 237

Hark ! — to the cry

They reply :

' Ha, there, ha ! '

' Hurrah ! '— ' hurrah ! '

And starting afraid
At the cries,

In the depths of the glade
Echo replies —

' Ho, there ! ' — ' ho, there ! '—
By the stream below there

The answer dies.

238 UNDERTONES

II
IRIS

While a summer shower sings by,
Smiles the Rainbow in the sky ;
In the cloud it rises pale,
But its bright feet light the vale.
Now the Boy's soul slipping warm
From the Satyr's shaggy form,
Turns to Iris, standing still
On a heaven -kissing hill !

'Mid the cloud-enshrouded haze

Of Olympus I arise,
With the full and rainy gaze

Of Apollo in mine eyes ;
But I shade my dazzled glance

With my dripping pinions white,
Where the sunlight-sparkles dance

In a many-tinted light :

UNDERTONES 239

My foot upon the woof

Of a cloud wool-white and small,
I glimmer thro' the roof

Of the paven banquet-hall,
And a soft pink radiance dips

Thro' the floating mists divine,
Touching eyes and cheeks and lips

Of the mild-eyed gods supine,
And the odorous vapour rolls

Round their foreheads, while I stain,
With a blush like wine, the bowls

Of transparent porcelain :
Till the whole calm place has caught

A faint flush of rosy fire —
When I darken, to the thought

In the eyes of Zeus the Sire.

11
Then Zeus, arising, stoops

O'er the ledges of the skies,
Looking downward, thro' the loops

Of the starry tapestries,
On the evident dark plain

Speck'd with wood and hill and stream,
On the wrinkled tawny Main

Where the sleepless surge doth gleam ;

240 UNDERTONES

And with finger without swerve.

While all darkens unaware,
He draws a magic curve

In the dark and dreamful air ;
When with waving wings display'd,

On the Sun-god's threshold bright
I upleap ! and seem to fade

In a humid flash of light !
But I plunge thro' vapours dim

To the dark low-lying land,
And I tremble, float, and swim,

On the strange curve of the Hand :
From my wings, that drip, drip, drip,

With cool rains, shoot jets of fire,
As across green capes I slip

With the sign of Zeus the Sire.

in
Thence, with wings that droop bedew'd

Folded close about my form,
I alight with feet unview'd

In the centre of the Storm !
For a moment, cloud-enroll'd,

Mid the murm'rous ram I stand,
And with meteor eyes behold

Vapoury ocean, misty land ;

UiVDERTOXES 241

Till the thought of Zeus outsprings

From my ripe mouth with a sigh,
And unto my lips it clings

Like a golden butterfly ;
When I brighten, gleam, and glow,

And my glittering wings unfurl,
And the melting colours flow

To my foot of dusky pearl ;
And the Ocean mile on mile

Gleams thro' capes and straits and bays,
And the vales and mountains smile,

And the leaves are wet with rays, —
While I wave the humid Bow

Of my wings with flash of fire,
And the Tempest, crouch'd below,
Knows the sign of Zeus the Sire.

242 UNDERTONES

III

THE NAIAD

Next, he'll in a green grot rest,
As the naiad in her nest.

I
Dian white-arm'd has given me this cool shrine,
Deep in the bosom of a wood of pine :
The silver-sparkling showers
That curtain me, the flowers
That prink my fountain's brim, are hers and mine ;
And when the days are mild and fair,
And grass is springing, buds are blowing,
Sweet it is, 'mid waters flowing,
Here to sit, and know no care,

'Mid the waters flowing, flowing, flowing,
Combing my yellow, yellow hair.

ii
The ounce and panther down the mountain-side
Creep thro' dark greenness in the eventide ;

And at the fountain's brink

Casting great shades they drink,
Gazing upon me, tame and sapphire-eyed ;

UNDERTONES

For, awed by my pale face, whose light
Gleameth thro' sedge and lilies yellow,
They, lapping at my fountain mellow,

Harm not the lamb that in affright
Throws in the pool so mellow, mellow, mellow,

Its shadow small and dusky-white.

in
Oft do the fauns and satyrs, flusht with play,
Come to my coolness in the hot noon-day.
Nay, once indeed, I vow
By Dian's truthful brow,
The great god Pan himself did pass this way,
And, all in festal oak-leaves clad,

His limbs among these lilies throwing,
Watch'd the silver waters flowing,
Listen'd to their music glad,

Saw and heard them flowing, flowing, flowing,
And ah ! his face was worn and sad !

-43

244

UNDERTONES

IV

SELENE

New he 's the Moon,
Mid the silvern swoon
Of a night in June !

I
I hide myself in the cloud that flies

From the West and drops on the hill's gray shoulder,
And I gleam thro' the cloud with my panther-eyes,

While the stars turn paler, the dews grow colder ;
I veil my naked glory in mist,

Quivering downward and dewily glistening ;
His sleep is as pale as my lips unkist,

And I tremble above him, panting and listening.
As white as a star, as cold as a stone,

Lost as my light in a sleeping lake,
With his head on his arm he lieth alone.

And I sigh, ' Awake !
Wake, Endymion, wake and see ! '
And he stirs in his sleep for the love of me ;

But on his eyelids my breath I shake :

UNDERTONES 245

' Endymion, Endymion !

Awaken, awaken ! '
And the yellow grass stirs with the mystic moan,

And the tall pines groan,
And Echo sighs in her grot forsaken

The name of Endymion !

11
A dewy foam from the Ocean old,

Whence I rise with shadows behind me flying,
Drops from my sandals and glittereth cold

On the long spear-grass where my love is lying ;
My face is dim with departed suns,

And my eyes are dark from the depths of ocean,
A starry shudder throughout me runs,

And my pale cloud stirs with a radiant motion,
When the darkness wherein he slumbers alone

Ebbs back from my brightness, as black waves break
From my shining ankle with shuddering tone ;

And I sigh, ' Awake !
Wake, Endymion, wake and hear ! '
And he stirs in his sleep with a dreamy fear,
And his thin lips part for my sweet sake :
' Endymion, Endymion !
Awaken, awaken ! '

246 UNDERTONES

And the skies are moved, and a shadow is blown

From the Thunderer's throne,
And the spell of a voice from Olympus shaken

Echoes ' Endymion I '

in

Then under his lids like a balmy rain

I put pale dreams of my heavenly glory ; —
And he sees me lead with a silver chain

The tamed Sea-Tempest white-tooth'd and hoary ;
And he sees me fading thro' forests dark

Where the leopard and lion avoid me in wonder,
Or ploughing the sky in a pearly bark,

While the earth is bright with my beauty under !
Then he brightens and yearns where he lies alone,
And his heart grows dumb with a yearning ache,
And the thin lips part with a wondering moan,

As I sigh, ' Awake !
Wake, Endymion, wake and see
All things grow bright for the love of me,

With a love that grows gentle for thy sweet sake !
Endymion, Endymion !
Awaken, awaken ! '
And my glory grows paler, the deep woods groan,

And the waves intone,
Ay, all things whereon my glory is shaken
Murmur, ' Endymion ! '

UNDERTONES 247

IV
The black Earth brightens, the Sea creeps near,

When I swim from the sunset's shadowy portal ;
But he will not see, and he will not hear,

Though to hear and see were to be immortal :
Pale as a star and cold as a stone,

Dim as my ghost in a sleeping lake,
In an icy vision he lieth alone,

And I sigh, ' Awake !
Wake, Endymion, wake and be
Divine, divine, for the love of me ! '

And my odorous breath on his lids I shake :
' Endymion, Endymion !
Awaken, awaken ! '
But Zeus sitteth cold on his cloud-shrouded throne,

And heareth my moan,
And his stern lips form not the hope-forsaken
Name of Endymion.

243

PYGMALION

AN ALLEGORY OF ART

This dream the Boy dreamt too,
This shape too wore the Boy,

And, as Pygmalion, knew
The shame of impious joy !

I
Upon the very morn I should have wed
Death put his silence in a sorrowing house ;
And, coming fresh from feast, I saw her lie
In stainless marriage samite, white and cold,
With orange blossoms in her hair, and gleams
Of the ungiven kisses of the bride
Lingering round the edges of her lips.

Then I, Pygmalion, kiss'd her as she slept,
And drew my robe across my face, whereon
The midnight revel linger'd dark, and pray'd ;
And the sore trouble hollow'd out my heart

PYGMALION 249

To hatred of a harsh unhallow'd youth

As I fared forth. Next, day by day, my soul

Grew conscious of itself and of its fief

Within the shadow of her sleep : therewith,

Waken'd a sigh for silence such as slumbers

Under the ribs of death : until I felt

Her voice sink down from heaven on my souL

And stir it as a wind that droppeth down

Unseen, unfelt, unheard, until its breath

Troubles the shadows in a sleeping lake.

And the voice said, ' Pygmalion,' and ' Behold,'
I answer'd, ' I am here ; ' when thus the voice :
' Put men behind thee — take thy tools, and choose
A rock of marble white as is a star,
Cleanse it and make it pure, and fashion it
After mine image : heal thyself : from grief
Comes glory, like a rainbow from a cloud.'

I barred the entrance-door unto my tower
Against the tumult of the world, I prayed
In my pale chamber. Then I wrought, and chose
A rock of marble white as is a star,
And to her heavenly image fashion'd clay,
And labour'd on in silence. And at last,
Fair-statured, noble, like an awful thing

250 PYGMALION

Frozen upon the very verge of life,

And looking back along eternity

With rayless eyes that keep the shadow Time,

She rose before me in the snow-white stone,

White-limb'd, immortal ; and I gazed and gazed,

Like one that sees a vision, and in awe

Half hides his face, yet looks, and seems to dream.

ii
Blue night. I threw the lattice open wide,
Drinking the dewy air ; and from my height
I saw the watch-fires of the town and heard
The gradual dying of the murmurous day.
Then, as the twilight deepen'd, on her limbs
The silver lances of the stars and moon
Were shatter'd, and the shining fragments fell
Like jewels at her feet. The Cyprian star
Quiver'd to liquid emerald where it hung
On the black ledges of the darkening hills,
Gazing upon her glory from afar.

Whereat there swam upon me utterly
A drowsy sense wherein my holy dream
Was melted, as a pearl in wine : bright-eyed,
Keen, haggard, passionate, with languid thrills
Of insolent unrest, I watch'd the stone,

PYGMALION 251

And lo, I loved it : not as men love fame,

Not as the warrior loves his laurel wreath,

But with prelusion of a passionate joy

That threw me from the height whereon I stood

To grasp at Glory, and in impiousness

Of sweet communing with some amorous Soul

Chamber'd in that chill bosom. As I gazed,

There was a buzz of revel in mine ears,

And tinkling fragments of a song of love,

Warbled by wantons over wine-cups, swam

Within the weary brain. — But I was shamed

By her pale beauty, and I scorn'd myself,

And standing at the lattice dark and cool

Watch'd the dim winds of twilight enter in,

And draw a veil about that loveliness

White, dim, and breathed on by the common air

Still, like a snake's moist eye, the dewy Star
Of Lovers drew me ; and I watch'd it grow
Large, soft, and tremulous ; and as I gazed
I pray'd the lifeless silence might assume
A palpable life, and soften into flesh,
And be a beautiful and human joy
To crown my love withal ; and thrice I pray'd ;
And thro' the woolly fleece of a thin cloud
The cool star dripping emerald from the baths

252 PYGMALION

Of Ocean brighten'd in upon my tower,
And touch'd the marble forehead with a gleam
Soft, green, and dewy ; and I said, ' The prayer
Is heard ! '

The live-long night, the breathless night,
I waited in a darkness, in a dream,
Watching the snowy figure faintly seen,
And ofttimes shuddering when I seem'd to see
Life, like a taper burning in a scull,
Gleam thro' the rayless eyes : and, shuddering,
Fearing the thing I hoped for, awful eyed,
On her cold breast I placed a hand as cold
And sought a fluttering heart. — But all was still,
And chill, and breathless ; and she gazed right on
With rayless orbs, nor marvell'd at my touch.

When Shame lay heavy on me, and I hid
My face, and almost hated her, my work,
Because she was so fair, so human fair,
Yea, not divinely fair as that pure face
Which, when mine hour of loss and travail came,
Haunted me, out of heaven. Then the Dawn
Stared in upon her : when I open'd eyes,
And saw the gradual Dawn encrimson her
Like blood that blush'd within her, — and behold
She trembled — and I shriek'd !

With haggard eyes,

PYGMALION 253

I gazed on her, my fame, my work, my love !

Red sunrise mingled with the first bright flush

Of palpable life — she trembled, stirr'd, and sigh'd —

And die dim blankness of her stony eyes

Melted to azure. Then, by slow degrees,

She tingled with the warmth of living blood :

Her eyes were vacant of a seeing soul,

But dewily the bosom rose and fell,

The lips caught sunrise, parting, and the breath

Fainted thro' pearly teeth.

I was as one
Who gazes on a goddess serpent-eyed,
And cannot fly, and knows to look is death.
O apparition of my work and wish !
The weight of awe oppress'd me, and the air
Swung as the Seas swing around drowning men.

in
About her brow the marble hair had clung
With wavy tresses, in a simple knot
Bound up and braided ; but behold, her eyes
Droop'd downward, as she wonder'd at herself,
Then flush'd to see her naked loveliness,
And trembled, stooping downward ; and the hair
Unloosening fell, and brighten'd as it fell,

254 PYGMALION

Till gleaming ringlets tingled to the knees
And cluster'd round about her, pouring down
And throwing moving shadows o'er the floor
Whereon she stood and brighten'd.

Wondering eyed,
With softly heaving breast and outstretch'd arms,
She thrust a curving foot and touch'd the ground,
And stirr'd : and, downcast-lidded, saw not me.
Then as the foot descended with no sound,
The whole live blood grew pink within the veins
For joy of its own motion. Step by step,
She paced the chamber, groping till she gain'd
One sunlight-slip that thro' the curtain'd pane
Crept slant — a gleaming line on roof and floor ;
And there, in light, she pausing sunn'd herself
With half-closed eyes; there, stirring not, she paused ;
With drooping eyelids that grew moist and warm,
What time, withdrawn into the further dark,
I watch'd her face, and still she saw me not,
But gather'd glory while she sunn'd herself,
Drawing deep breath of gladness such as earth
Breathes dewily in the sunrise after rain.

What follow'd was a strange and wondrous dream
Wherein, half conscious, wearily and long
I wooed away her fears with gentle words ;

PYGMALION 255

And all the while thick pulses of my heart
Throng'd hot in ears and eyelids, — for my Soul
Seem'd swooning, deaden'd in the sense, like one
Who sinks in snows, and sleeps, and wakes no more.

Then, further, I was conscious that my face
Had lull'd her fears ; that close to me she came
Tamer than beast, and toy'd with my great beard ;
And murmufd sounds like prattled infants' speech,
And yielding to my kisses kissed again.
Whereat, in scorn of my pale Soul, I cried,
' Here will I feast in honour of this night ! '
And spread the board with meats and bread and wine,
And drew the curtain with a wave of arm
Bidding the sunlight welcome : lastly, snatch'd
A purple robe of richness from the wall,
And flung it o'er her while she kiss'd and smiled,
Girdling the waist with clasp and cord of gold.

Then sat we, side by side. She, queenly stoled,
Amid the gleaming fountain of her hair,
With liquid azure orbs and rosy lips ;
And, like a glorious beast, she ate and drank,
Staining her lips in crimson wine, and laugh'd
To feel the vinous bubbles froth and burst
In veins whose sparkling blood was meet to be

256 PYGMALION

A goddess' habitation. Cup on cup
I drain'd in fulness — careless as a god —
A haggard bearded head upon a breast
In tumult like a sun-kist bed of flowers.

But ere, suffused with light, the eyes of Heaven
Widen'd to gaze upon the white-armed Moon,
Stiller than stone we reign'd there, side by side.
Brightly apparelled I sat above
The tumult of the town, as on a throne,
Watching her wearily ; while far away
The sunset dark'd like dying eyes that shut
Under the waving of an angel's wing.

IV

Three days and nights the vision dwelt with me,

Three days and nights we dozed in dreadful state,

Look'd piteously upon by sun and star ;

But the third night there pass'd a homeless sound

Across the city underneath my tower,

And lo ! there came a roll of muffled wheels,

A shrieking and a hurrying to and fro

Beneath, and I gazed forth. Then far below

I heard the people name ' The Pestilence ! '

But, while they shriek'd, they carried forth their Dead

And flung them out upon the common ways,

PYGMALION 257

And moaning fled : while far across the hills
A dark and brazen sunset ribb'd with black
Glared, like the sullen eyeballs of the plague.

I turn'd to her, the partner of my height :
She. with bright eyeballs sick with wine, and hair
Gleaming in sunset, on a couch asleep.
And lo ! a horror lifted up my scalp,
The pulses plunged upon the heart, and fear
Froze my wide eyelids. Peacefully she lay
In purple stole array'd, one little hand
Bruising the downy cheek, the other still
Clutching the dripping goblet, and the light,
With gleams of crimson on the ruinous hair,

ling a blue-vein'd bosom whence the robe
Fell back in rifled folds ; but dreadful change
Grew pale and hideous on the waxen face,
And in her sleep she did not stir, nor dream.

O apparition of my work and wish !
Shrieking I fled, my robe across my face,
And left my glory and my woe behind,
And sped, thro' pathless woods, o'er moonlit peaks,
Toward sunrise ; — nor have halted since that hour, —
But wander far away, a homeless man,
Prophetic, orphan'd both of name and fame.
11 s

258 PYGMALION

Nay, like a timid Phantom evermore

I come and go with haggard warning eyes ;

And some, that sit with lemans over wine,

Or dally idly with the glorious hour,

Turn cynic eyes away and smile aside ;

And some are saved because they see me pass,

And, shuddering, yet constant to their task,

Look up for comfort to the silent stars.*

* This, and the preceding ' Lyrical Poems, ' are, as may be inferred,
juvenilia. In thus preserving them, I cannot refrain from connect-
ing them with one to whom they were read as written, and to whom
they were full of interest — I mean my dear old friend, Thomas
Love Peacock, known to students as one of the wisest thinkers and
ripest scholars of the century. The good and gracious ' master '
is now no more ; and the happy days I spent with him at Lower
Halliford are now, alas ! a dream within a dream. R. B.

259

THE SWALLOWS

i
O churchyard in the shady gloom,

What charm to please hast thou,
That, seated on a broken tomb,
I muse so oft, as now ?
The dreary autumn woodland whispers nigh,
And in the distant lanes the village urchins cry.

Thou holdest in thy sunless land
Nought I have seen or known,
No lips I ever kissed, no hand
That ever clasped mine own ;
And all is still and dreary to the eye, —
The broken tombs, dark walls, the patch of cloudy sky

And to the murmur that mine ears

Catch from the distant lanes,
Dimming mine eyes with dreamy tears,

Slow, low, my heart refrains,

s 2

26o THE SWALLOWS

And the live grass creeps up from thy dead bones,
And crawls, with slimy stains, over thy gray gravestones.
The cries keep on, the minutes pass,

-Mine eyes are on the ground,
The silent many-fingered grass

Winds round, and round, and round :
I seem to see it live, and stir, and wind,
And gaze until a weight is heavy on my mind.

ii
O churchyard in the shady gloom,
What charm to please hast thou,
That, seated on a broken tomb,
I muse so oft, as now?
Haply because I learn, with sad content,
How small a thing can make the whole world different !

Among the gravestones worn and old,

A sad sweet hour I pass,
Where thickest from thy sunless mould
Upsprings the sickly grass ;
For, though the earth holds no sweet-smelling flower,
The Swallows build their nests up in thy square gray
tower.

THE SWALLOWS 261

While, burthened by the life we bear,

The dull and creeping woe,
The mystery, the pain, the care,
I watch thy grasses grow,
Sighing, I look to the dull autumn skies,
And, lo ! my heart is cheered, and tears are in mine eyes.

For here, where stillness, death, and dream,

Brood over creeping things,
Over mine eyes with quick bright gleam
Shine little flashing wings,
And a strange comfort takes thy shady air,
And the deep life I breathe seems sweetened unaware.

262

ON A YOUNG POETESS'S GRAVE

Under her gentle seeing,

In her delicate little hand,
They placed the Book of Being,

To read and understand.

The Book was mighty and olden,

Yea, worn and eaten with age;
Though the letters looked great and golden,

She could not read a page.

The letters flutter'd before her,

And all look'd sweetly wild :
Death saw her, and bent o'er her,

As she pouted her lips and smiled.

And weary a little with tracing

The Book, she look'd aside,
And lightly smiling, and placing

A Flower in its leaves, she died.

I YOUNG POETESS'S GRAVE 263

She died, but her sweetness fled not,

As fly the things of power, —
For the Book wherein she read not

Is the sweeter for the Flower.

264

SEA- WASH

Wherefore so cold, O Day,
That gleamest far away

O'er the dim line where mingle heaven and ocean,
While fishing-boats lie netted in the gray,

And the smooth wave gleams in its shoreward motion-
Wherefore so cold, so cold ?
Oh say, dost thou behold

A Face o'er which the rock-weed droopeth sobbing,
A Face just stirred within a sea-cave old

By the green waters throbbing ?

Wherefore, O Fisherman,

So full of care and wan,
This weary, weary morning shoreward flying,

While, stooping downward, darkly thou dost scan
That which below thee in thy boat is lying.

Wherefore so full of care ?

{•WASH 265

What dost thou shoreward bear

ght in thy net's moist meshes, as a token?
Ah ! can it be the ring of golden hair
Whereby my heart is broken ?

Wherefore so still, O Sea,
That washest wearilie

Under the lamp lit in the fisher's dwelling,

Holding the secret of thy deeps from me,
Whose heart would break so sharply at the telling ?
Wherefore so still, so still ?
Say, in thy sea-cave chill,
Floats she forlorn with foam-bells round her breaking,

While the wet Fisher lands and climbs the hill
To hungry babes awaking ?

266

LONDON, 1864

i
Why should the heart seem stiller,
' As the song grows stronger and surer ?
Why should the brain grow chiller,

And the utterance clearer and purer?
To lose what the people are gaining

Seems often bitter as gall,
Though to sink in the proud attaining

Were the bitterest of all.
I would to God I were lying

Yonder 'mong mountains blue,
Chasing the morn with flying

Feet in the morning dew !
Longing, and aching, and burning

To conquer, to sing, and to teach,
A passionate face upturning

To visions beyond my reach, —
But with never a feeling or yearning

I could utter in tuneful speech !

LONDON, 1S64 267

11
Yea ! that were a joy more stable

Than all that my soul hath found, —
Than to see and to know, and be able

To utter the seeing in sound ;
For Art, the Angel of losses, }

Comes, with her still, gray eyes,
Coldly my forehead crosses,

Whispers to make me wise ;
And, too late, comes the revelation,

After the feast and the play,
That she works God's dispensation

By cruelly taking away :
By burning the heart and steeling,

Scorching the spirit deep,
And changing the flower of feeling

To a poor dried flower that may keep !
What wonder if much seems hollow,

The passion, the wonder dies ;
And I hate the angel I follow,

And shrink from her passionless eyes, —
Who, instead of the rapture of being,

I held as the poet's dower —
Instead of the glory of seeing,

The impulse, the splendour, the power —

26S LONDON, 1S64

Instead of merrily blowing

A trumpet proclaiming the day,
( rives, for her sole bestowing,

A pipe whereon to play !
While the spirit of boyhood hath faded,

And never again can be,
And the singing seemeth degraded,

Since the glory hath gone from me, —
Though the glory around me and under,

And the earth and the air and the sea,
And the manifold music and wonder,

Are grand as they used to be !

in
Is there a consolation

For the joy that comes never again ?
Is there a reservation ?

Is there a refuge from pain ?
Is there a gleam of gladness

To still the grief and the stinging ?
Only the sweet, strange sadness,

That is the source of the singing.

IV

For the sound of the city is weary,

As the people pass to and fro,
And the friendless faces are dreary,

As they come, and thrill through us, and go ;

LONDON^ 1S64 * 269

And the ties that bind us the nearest

Of our error and weakness are born ;
And our dear ones ever love dearest

Those parts of ourselves that we scorn ;
And the weariness will not be spoken,

And die bitterness dare not be said,
The silence of souls is unbroken,

And we hide ourselves from our Dead !
And what, then, secures us from madness?

Dear ones, or fortune, or fame ?
Only the sweet singing sadness

Cometh between us and shame.

v
And there dawneth a time to the Poet,

When the bitterness passes away,
With none but his God to know it,

He kneels in the dark to pray ;
And the prayer is turn cl into singing,

And the singing findeth a tongue,
And Art, with her cold hands clinging,

Comforts the soul she has stung.
Then the Poet, holding her to him,

Findeth his loss is his gain :
The sweet singing sadness thrills thro' him,

Though nought of the glory remain ;

27o LONDON, 1864

And the awful sound of the city,

And the terrible faces around,
Take a truer, tenderer pity,

And pass into sweetness and sound ;
The mystery deepens to thunder,

Strange vanishings gleam from the cloud,
And the Poet, with pale lips asunder,

Stricken, and smitten, and bow'd,
Starteth at times from his wonder,

And sendeth his Soul up aloud !

271

THE MODERN WARRIOR

O Warrior for the Right,

Tho' thy shirt of mail be white
As the snows upon the breast of The Adored,

Tho' the weapon thou mayest claim

Hath been temper'd in the flame
Of the fire upon the Altar of the Lord,

Ere the coming of the night,

Thy mail shall be less bright,
And the taint of sin may settle on the Sword !

For the foemen thou must meet

Are the phantoms in the street,
And thine armour shall be foul'd in many a place,

And the shameful mire and mud,

With a grosser stain than blood,
Shall be scatter'd 'mid the fray upon thy face ;

And the helpless thou dost aid

Shall shrink from thee dismayed,
Till thou comest to the knowledge of things base.

272 THE MODERN WARRIOR

Ah, mortal, with a brow

Like the gleam of sunrise, thou

May'st wander from the pathway in thy turn,
In the noontide of thy strength
Be stricken down at length,

And cry to God for aid, and live, and learn ;
And when, with many a stain,
Thou arisest up again,

The lightning of thy look will be less stern.

Thou shalt see with humbler eye

The adulteress go by,
Nor shudder at the touch of her attire ;

Thou shalt only look with grief

On the liar and the thief,
Thou shalt meet the very murtherer in the mire-

And to which wouldst thou accord,

O thou Warrior of the Lord !
The vengeance of the Sword and of the Fire ?

Nay ! batter'd in the fray,
Thou shalt quake in act to slay,
And remember thy transgression and be meek ;
And the thief shall grasp thy hand,
And the liar blushing stand,

THE MODERN WARRIOR 273

And the harlot if she list shall kiss thy cheek ;

And the murtherer, unafraid.

Shall meet thee in the shade,
And pray thee for the doom thou wilt not wreak.

Yet shalt thou help the frail

From the phantoms that assail,
Yea, the strong man in his anger thou shalt dare ;

Thy voice shall be a song

Against wickedness and wrong,
But the wicked and the wronger thou wilt spare.

And while thou lead'st the van,

The ungrateful hand of man
Shall smite thee down and slay thee unaware.

With an agonised cry

Thou shalt shiver down and die,
With stained shirt of mail and broken brand;

And the voice of men shall call,

1 He is fallen like us all,
Though the weapon of the Lord was in his hand ; '

And thine epitaph shall be,

' He was wretched ev'n as we ; '
And thy tomb may be unhonoured in the land.
11 t

-74

THE MODERN WARRIOR

But the basest of the base

Shall bless thy pale dead face,
And the thief shall steal a bloody lock of hair ;

And over thee asleep,

The adulteress shall weep
Such tears as she can never shed elsewhere,

Shall bless the broken brand

In thy chill and nerveless hand,
Shall kiss thy stained vesture with a prayer.

Then, while in that chill place

Stand the basest of the base,
Gather'd round thee in the silence of the dark,

A white Face shall look down

On the silence of the town,
And see thee lying dead with those to mark,

And a voice shall fill the air,

' Bear my Warrior lying there
To his sleep upon my Breast ! ' and they shall heark.

Lo, then those fallen things
Shall perceive a rush of wings
Growing nearer down the azure gulfs untrod,
And around them in the night
There shall grow a wondrous light,

THE MODERN WARRIOR

vVhile they hide affrighted faces on the sod,

But ere again 'tis dark,

They shall raise their eyes, and mark
White arms that waft the Warrior up to God !

SONGS OF THE TERRIBLE YEAR

(1870)

These ' Songs,' inasmuch as they formed a portion of the * Drama
of Kings,' preceded by a long period the publication of Victor Hugo's
series under the same admirable title. The ' Drama of Kings ' was written
under a false conception, which no one discarded sooner than the author ;
but portions of it are preserved in the present collection, because, although
written during the same feverish and evanescent excitement, they are the
distinct lyrical products of the author's mind, and perfectly complete in
themselves. R. B.

279

ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF AUGUSTE COMTE
(1S71)

Spirit of the great brow !

Fire hath thy City now :
She shakes the sad world with her troubled scream !

O spirit who loved best

This City of the West,
Hark ! loud she shattered cries — great Queen of thy great
Dream.

But, as she passes by

To the earth's scornful cry,
What are those Shapes who walk behind so wan? —

Martyrs and prophets born

Out of her night and morn :
Have we forgot them yet ? — these, the great friends of
Man.

We name them as they go,
Dark, solemn-faced, and slow —

280 ODE TO THE SPIRIT 01

Voltaire, with saddened mouth, but eyes still bright,
Turgot, Malesherbes, Rousseau,
Lafayette, Mirabeau —
These pass and many more, heirs of large realms of
Light.

Greatest and last pass thou !

Strong heart and mighty brow,
Thine eyes surcharged with love of all things fair ;

Facing with those grand eyes

The light in the sweet skies,
While thy shade earthward falls, darkening my soul to
prayer.

Sure as the great sun rolls,

The crown of mighty souls
Is martyrdom, and lo ! thou hast thy crown.

On her pale brow there weighed

Another such proud shade —
O, but we know you both, risen or stricken down.

Sinful, mad, fever-fraught,

At war with her own thought,
Great-soul'd, sublime, the heir of constant pain,

France hath the dreadful part

To keep alive Man's heart,
To shake the sleepy blood into the sluggard's brain ;

AUGUSTE CO J/7 E 281

Ever in act to spring,

Ever in suffering,
To point a lesson and to bear the load,

Least happy and least free

Of all the lands that be,
Dying that all may live, first of the slaves of God.

To try each crude desire

By her own soul's fierce fire,
To wait and watch with restless brain and heart,

To quench the fierce thirst never,

To feel supremely ever,
To rush where cowards crawl — this is her awful part.

Ever to cross and rack,

Along the same red track,
Genius is led, and speaks its soul out plain ;

Blessed are those that give —

They die that man may live,
Their crown is martyrdom, their privilege is pain.

Spirit of the great brow !

I see thee, know thee now —
Last of the flock who die for man each day.

Ah, but / should despair

Did I not see up there
A Shepherd heavenly-eyed on the heights far away.

282 ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF

No cheat was thy vast scheme

Tho' in thy gentle dream
Thou saw'st no Shepherd watching the mid throng —

Thou, walking the sad road

Of all who seek for God,
Blinded became at last, looking at Light so long.

Yet God is multiform,

Human of heart and warm,
Content to take what shape the Soul loves best ;

Before our footsteps still,

He changeth as we will —
Only, — with blood alone we gain Him, and are blest

O, latest son of her,

Freedom's pale harbinger,
I see the Shepherd whom thou could'st not find ;

But on thy great fair brow,

As thou did'st pass but now,
Bright burnt the patient Cross of those who bless man-
kind.

And on her brow, who flies

Bleeding beneath the skies,
The mark was set that will not let her rest —

Sinner in all men's sight,

Mocker of very Light,
Yet is she chosen thus, martyr' d — and shall be blest.

AUGUSTE COMTE 283

Go by, O mighty dead !

My soul is comforted ;
The Shepherd on the summit needs no prayers ;

Best worshipper is he

Who suffers and is free —
That Soul alone blasphemes which trembles and despairs.

284

A DIRGE FOR KINGS

Strange are the bitter things
God wreaks on cruel Kings ;
Sad is the cup drunk up

By Kings accurst.
In secret ways and strong
God doth avenge man's wrong.
The least, God saith, is Death,

And Life the worst.

Sit under the sweet skies ;
Think how Kings set and rise,
Think, wouldst thou know the woe

In each proud breast ?
Sit on the hearth and see
Children look up to thee —
Think, wouldst thou own a throne,

Or lowly rest ?

A DIRGE FOR KINGS 285

Ah, to grow old, grow old,
Upon a throne of gold —
Ah, on a throne, so lone,

To wear a crown ;
To watch the clouds, the air,
Lest storm be breeding there —
Pale, lest some blast may cast

Thy glory down.

He who with miser's ken
Hides his red gold from men,
And wakes and grieves, lest thieves

Be creeping nigh ;
He who hath murder done,
And fears each rising sun,
Lest it say plain ' O Cain,

Rise up and die ! '

These, and all underlings,
Are blesseder than Kings,
For ah ! by weight of fate

Kings' hearts are riven ;
With blood and gold they too
Reckon their sad days thro' —
They fear the plan of man,

The wrath of heaven.

286 A DIRGE FOR KINGS

In the great lonely bed,
Hung round with gold and red,
While the dim light each night

Burns in the room,
They lie alone and see
The rustling tapestry,
Lest Murther's eyes may rise

Out of the gloom.

Dost thou trust any man ?
Thou dost what no King can.
Friend hast thou near and dear ?

A King hath none.
Hast thou true love to kiss ?
A King hath no such bliss,
On no true breast may rest

Under the sun.

Ah, to sit cold, sit cold,
Upon a throne of gold,
Forcing the while a smile

To hide thy care ;
To taste no cup, to eat
No food, however sweet,
But with a drear dumb fear,

Lest Death be there !

A DIRGE FOR KINGS 287

Ali, to rule men, and know
How many wish thee low —
That, 'neath the sun, scarce one

Would keep thee high :
To watch in agony
The strife of all things free,
To dread the mirth of Earth

When thou shalt die !

Hast thou a hard straw bed ?
Hast thou thy crust of bread ?
And hast thou quaffed thy draught

Of water clear ?
And canst thou dance and sing? —
O blesseder than a King !
O happy one whom none

Doth hate or fear !

Wherefore, though from the strong
Thou sufferest deep wrong,
Tho! Kings, with ire and fire,

Have wrought thee woe :
Pray for them ! for I swear
Deeply they need thy prayer —
Most in their hour of power,

Least when cast low.

288 A DIRGE FOR KINGS

And when thou castest down
King, sceptre, throne, and crown.
Pause that same day, and pray

For the accurst ;
Since in strange ways and strong,
God doth avenge man's wrong —
The least, God saith, is Death,

And Life the worst.

289

THE PERFECT STATE

Where is the perfect State
Early most blest and late,

Perfect and bright ?
Tis where no Palace stands
Trembling on shifting sands

Morning and night.
Tis where the soil is free,
Where, far as eye may see,
Scattered o'er hill and lea,

Homesteads abound ;
Where clean and broad and swee-
(Market, square, lane, and street,
Belted by leagues of wheat),

Cities are found.

Where is the perfect State
Early most blest and late,

u

29o THE PERFECT STATE

• Gentle and good ?
'Tis where no lives are seen
Huddling in lanes unseen,

Crying for food ;
Tis where the home is pure,
'Tis where the bread is sure,
Tis where the wants are fewer,

And each want fed ;
Where plenty and peace abide,
Where health dwells heavenly- eyed,
Where in nooks beautified

Slumber the Dead.

Where is the perfect State
Unvexed by Wrath and Hate,

Quiet and just ?
Where to no form of creed
Fetter'd are thought and deed,

Reason and trust.
Tis where the great free mart
Broadens, while from its heart
Forth the great ships depart,

Blown by the wind ;
Tis where the wise men's eyes,
Fixed on the earth and skies,
Seeking for signs, devise

Good for mankind.

THE PERFECT STATE 291

Where is the perfect State,
Holy and consecrate,

Blessedly wrought ?
Tis where all waft abroad
Wisdom and faith in God,

Beautiful thought.
'Tis where the Poet's sense
Deepens in reverence,
While to his truths intense

Multitudes turn.
Where the bright sons of art,
Walking in street or mart,
Feel mankind's reverent heart

Tremble and yearn.

Say, is the perfect State
Strong and self-adequate,

There where it stands,
Perfect in praise of God,
Casting no thoughts abroad

Over the lands ?
Nay : for by each man's side
Hangeth a weapon tried ;
Nay : for wise leaders guide

292 THE PERFECT STATE

Under the Lord.
Nor, when a people cries,
Smiling with half-shut eyes,
Waiteth this State, — but flies,

Lifting the Sword.

Where is the perfect State ?
Not where men sit and wait,

Selfishly strong ;
While some lost sister State
Crieth most desolate,

Ruin'd by wrong ;
Not where men calmly sleep,
Tho' all the world should weep ;
Not where they merely heap

Goldjn the sun :
Not where in charity
Men with mere dust are free,
When o'er the weary sea

Murder is done.

Which is the perfect State ?
Not the self-adequate

Coward and cold ;
Not the brute thing of health,
Swollen with gather'd wealth,

THE PERFECT STATE 293

Sleepy and old.
Nay, but the mighty land
Ever with helping hand,
Ever with flaming brand,

Rising in power :
This is the fair and great,
This the evangel State,
Letting no wrong'd land wait

In the dark hour.

This is the perfect State,
Early in arms and late ;

Blessed at home ; —
Ready at Freedom's cry
Forward to fare and die,

Over the foam.
Loving States great and small,
Loving home best of all,
Yet at the holy call

Springing abroad :
This is the royal State,
Perfect and adequate,
Equal to any fate,

Chosen of God !

294

THE TWO VOICES

(January 1871)

I
FIRST VOICE

Fly to me, England ! Hie to me,

Now in mine hour of woe ;
Haste o'er the sea, ere I die, to me ;
Swiftly, my Sister ! stand nigh to me.

Help me to strike one blow !
Over the land and the water,
Swifter than winds can go,
Up the red furrow of slaughter,
Down on the lair of the foe !
Now, when my children scream madly and cling to me ;
Now, when I droop o'er the dying they bring to me ;
Come to me, England ! O speak to me, spring to me !
Hurl the assassin low !

THE TWO VOICES 295

II
SECOND VOICE

Woe to thee ? I would go to thee

Faster than wind can flee ;
Doth not my fond heart flow to thee ?
Would I might rise and show to thee

All that my love would be !
But behold, they bind me and blind me ;

Cowards, yet born of me ;
They fasten my hands behind me,
J am chain'd to a rock in the sea.
Alas, what availeth my grief while I sigh for thee ?
Traitors have trapt me — I struggle — I cry for thee —
Come to thee, Sister ? Yea, were it to die for thee ! —
O that my hands were free !

in

FIRST VOICE

Pray for me, Sister ! say for me

Prayers until help is nigh ;
Send thy loud voice each way for me,
Trouble the night and the day for me,
Waken the world and the sky :

296 THE TWO VOICES

Say that my heart is broken,
Say that my children die ;
With blood and tears for thy token,
Plead till the nations reply.
Plead to the sea, and the earth, and the air for me !
Move the hard heart of the world till it care for me —
Come to me, England ! — at least say a prayer for me,
Waken the winds with a cry !

IV
SECOND VOICE

Doom on me, Hell's own gloom on me,

Blood and a lasting blame !
Already the dark days loom on me,
Cold as the shade of the tomb on me ;

I am call'd by the coward's name.
Shall I hark to a murder'd nation ?

Shall I sit unarm'd and tame ?
Then woe to this generation,

Tho' out of my womb they came.
Betrayed by my children, I wail and I call for thee ;
Not tears, but my heart's blood, O Sister, should fall for

thee.
My children are slaves, or would strike one and all for
thee :

Shame on them, shame ! shame ! shame !

' THE TWO VOICES 297

FIRST VOICE

Pain for thee ! all things wane for thee

In truth, if this be so !
Fatal will be the stain for thee,
Dying, I mourn and 'plain for thee,

Since thou art left so low :
For Death can come once only,
Tho' bitterly comes the blow ;
But Shame abideth, and lonely
Feels a sick heart come and go.
Homeless and citiless, yet I can weep for thee ;
Fast comes the rnorroAV with anguish most deep for thee;
Dying, I mourn for the sorrow they heap for thee :
Thine is the bitterest woe.

SECOND VOICE

Mourn me not, Sister ! scorn me not !

Pray yet for mine and me !
Tho' the old proud fame adorn me not,
The sore grief hath outworn me not *

Wait ; I will come to thee.

29S THE TWO VOICES

I will rend my chains asunder,

I will tear my red sword free,
I will come with mine ancient thunder,
I will strike the foe to his knee.
Yea ! tho' the knife of the butcher is nigh to thee ;
Yea ! while thou screamest and echoes reply to thee ;
Comfort, O France ; for in God's name, I fly to thee-
Sword in hand, over the sea !

299

ODE BEFORE PARIS

(December 1870)

City of loveliness and light and splendour,
City of Sorrows, hearken to our cry ;
O Mother tender,
O Mother marvellously fair,
And fairest now in thy despair,
Look up ! O be of comfort ! Do not die !
Let the black hour blow by.

Cold is the night, and colder thou art lying.
Gnawing a stone sits Famine at thy feet
Shivering and sighing ;
Blacker than Famine, on thy breast,
Like a sick child that will not rest,
Moans Pestilence ; and hard by, with fingers fleet,
Frost weaves his winding-sheet.

Snow, snow ! the wold is white as one cold lily.
Snow : it is frozen round thee as hard as lead ;
The wind blows chilly ;

}oo ODE BEFORE PARIS

Thou liest white in the dim night,
And in thine eyes there is no light,
And the Snow falleth, freezing on thy head,
And covering up thy dead.

Ah, woe ! thy hands, no longer flower-bearing,

Press stony on thy heart ; and that heart bleeds ;
Thine eyes despairing
Watch while the fierce Fire clings and crawls
Through falling roofs and crumbling walls.
Ah, woe ! to see thee thus, the wild soul pleads,
The wild tongue intercedes.

O, we will cry to God, and pray and plead for thee ;
We, with a voice that troubles heaven and air,
Will intercede for thee :
We will cry for thee in thy pain,
Louder than storm and wind and rain ;
What shape among the nations may compare
With thee, most lost, most fair ?

Yea, thou hast sinned and fallen, O City splendid,

Yea, thou hast passed through days of shamefullest
woe —

And lo ! they are ended —

ODE BEFORE rARIS 301

Famine for famine, flame for flame,
Sorrow for sorrow, shame for shame,
Verily thou hast found them all ; — and lo !
Night and the falling snow.

Let Famine eat thy heart, let Fire and Sorrow
Hold thee, but turn thy patient eyes and see
The dim sweet morrow.
Better be thus than what thou wast,
Better be stricken and overcast,
Martyr'd once more, as when to all things free
Thy lips cried ' Liberty ! '

Let the Snow fall ! thou shalt be sweeter and whiter ;
Let the Fire burn ! under the morning sky
Thou shalt look brighter.
Comfort thy sad soul through the night ;
Turn to the east and pray for light ;
Look up ! O be of comfort ! Do not die '.
Let the black hour blow by !

3°2

A DIALOGUE IN THE SNOW

(Before Paris, December 1870)

DESERTER

0, I am spent ! My heart fails, and my limbs
Are palsied. Would to God I were dead !

SISTERS OF MERCY

Stand ! What art thou, who like a guilty thing
Creepest along the shadow, stooping low ?

DESERTER

A man. Now stand aside, and let me pass.

SISTERS

Not yet. Whence fleest thou ? Whither dost thou go ?

DESERTER

From Famine and Fire. From Horror. From Frost and
Death.

A DIALOGUE LV THE SNOW 303

SISTERS

O coward ! traitor to unhappy France !
Stand forward in the moon, that it may light
The blush of shame upon thy guilty cheek !
Lo, we are women, yet we shiver cold
To look upon so infamous a thing.

DESERTER

Nay. look your fill, I care not — stand and see.

SISTERS

O horror ! horror ! who hath done this deed ?

DESERTER

What say ye ? am I fair to look upon ?

SISTERS

The dead are fairer. O unhappy one !

DESERTER

Why do ye shudder ? Am I then so foul ?

SISTERS

There is no living flesh upon thy bones.

304 A DIALOGUE IN THE SNOW

DESERTER

Famine hath fed upon my limbs too long.

SISTERS

And thou art rent as by the teeth of hounds.

DESERTER

Fire tore me, and what blood I have I bleed.

SISTERS

Thine eyes stare like the blank eyes of a corpse.

DESERTER

They have look'd so close on horror and so long
I cannot shut them from it till I die.

SISTERS

Thou crawlest like a man whose sick limbs fail.

DESERTER

Ha ! Frost is there, and numbs me like a snake.

SISTERS

God help thee, miserable one ; and yet,
Better if thou hadst perish'd in thy place
Than live inglorious, tainted with thy shame.

A DIALOGUE IN THE SXOiV 305

DESERTER

Shame ? I am long past shame. I know her not.

SISTERS

Is there no sense of honour in thy soul ?

DESERTER

Honour? Why see, she hath me fast enough :

These are her other names, Fire, Famine, and Frost, —

Soon I shall hear her last and sweetest, — Death.

SISTERS

Hast thou no care for France, thy martyr'd land ?

DESERTER

What hath she given me ? Curses and blows.

SISTERS

O miserable one, remember God !

DESERTER

God? Who hath look'd on God? Where doth He dwell?
O fools, with what vain words and empty names
Ye sicken me. Honour, France, God ! All these —
Hear me — I curse. Why, look you, there's the sky,
Here the white earth, there, with its bleeding heart,
11 x

306 A DIALOGUE IN THE SNOW

The butcher'd City ; here half dead stand I,
A murder'd man, grown grey before my time,
Forty years old— a husband, and a father —
An outcast flying out of Hell. Who talks
To me of ' honour ? ' The first tears I wept
When standing at my wretched mother's knee,
Because her face was white, and she wore black.
That day the bells rang out for victory.
Then, look you, after that my mother sat
Weeping and weary in an empty house,
And they who look'd upon her shrunken cheeks
Fed her with ' honour.' 'Twas too gentle fare, —
She died. Nay, hearken ! Left to seek for bread,
I like a wild thing haunted human doors
Searching the ash for food. I ate and lived.
I grew. Then, wretched as I was, I felt
Strange stirs of manhood in my flesh and bones,
Dim yearnings, fierce desires, and one pale face
Could still them as the white moon charms the sea.
Oh, but I was a low and unclean thing,
And yet she loved me, and I stretch'd these hands
To God, and blest Him for His charity.
Mark that : — I blest Him, I. Even as I stood,
Bright in new manhood, the drums beat, — a hand
Fell on my shoulder, and, ' in France's name,'
A voice cried, ' Follow.' To my heart they held

A DIALOGUE IN THE SNOW ^07

Cold steel : — I followed ; following saw her face

Fade to a bitter cry — hurl'd on with blows,

Curs'd, jeer'd at, scorn'd, went forth as in a dream,

And, driven into the bloody flash of war,

Struck like a blinded beast I knew not whom

Blows for I knew not what. The fierce years came

Like ulcers on my heart, and heal'd, and went.

Then I crept back, a broken sickly man,

To seek her, and I found her — dead ! She had died,

Poor worm, of hunger. She had ask'd for bread,

And ' France ' had given her stones. She had pray'd to

1 God j •
He had given her a grave. The day she died,
The bells rang for another victory.

SISTERS

0 do not weep ! Yet we are weeping too.

DESERTER

Now mark, I was too poor a worm to grieve

Too long and deeply. The years passed. My heart

Heal'd, and as wounds heal, harden'd. Once again

1 join'd the wolves that up and down the earth
Rush tearing at men's lives and women's hearts.
That passed, and I was free. One morn I saw
Another woman, and I hunger'd to her,

X 3

3oS A DIALOGUE IN THE SNOW

And we were wedded. Hard days follow'd that ;

And children — she was fruitful — all your worms

Are fruitful, mark — that is God's blessing too !

Well, but we throve, and farm'd a bit of land

Out yonder by the City. I learn'd to love

The mother of my little ones. Time sped ;

And then I heard a cry across the fields,

The old cry, ' Honour/ the old cry, ' For France !'

And like a wolf caught in his lair I shrunk

And shudder'd. It grew louder, that curst cry !

Day follow'd day, no bells rung victory,

But there were funeral faces everywhere ;

And then I heard the far feet of the foe

Trampling the field of France and coming nearer

To that poor field I sow'd. I would have fled,

But that they thrust a weapon in mine hands

And bade me stand and strike ' for France.' I laugh'd !

But the wolves had me, and we screaming drew

Into the City. Shall I gorge your souls

With horror ? Shall I croak into your ears

What I have suffer'd there, what I have seen ?

I was a worm, ever a worm, and starved

While the plump coward cramm'd. Look at me, women

Fire, Famine, and Frost have got me ; yet I crawl,

And shall crawl on ; for hark you, yester-night,

Standing within the City, sick at heart,

A DIALOGUE LV THE SNOW 309

I gazed up eastward, thinking of my home
And of the woman and children desolate,
And lo ! out of the darkness where I knew
Our hamlet lay there shot up flames and cast
A bloody light along the arc of heaven j
And all my heart was sicken'd unaware
With hunger such as any wild thing feels
To crawl again in secret to the place
Whence the fierce hunter drove it, and to see
If its young live ; and thither indeed I fare ;
And yonder flame still flareth, and I crawl,
And I shall crawl unto it though I die ;
And I shall only smile if they be dead,
If I may merely see them once again, —
For come what may, my cup of life is full,
And I am broken from all use and will.

SISTERS

Pass on, unhappy one ; God help thee now ;

DESERTER

If ye have any pity, give me bread.

SISTERS

Lean on us ! Oh thou lost one, come this way.

3i°

THE PRAYER IN THE NIGHT

Stars in heaven with gentle faces,
Can ye see and keep your places ?
Flowers that on the old earth blossom.
Can ye hang on such a bosom ?
Canst thou wander on for ever
Through a world so sad, O River ?
O ye fair things 'neath the sun,
Can ye bear what Man hath done ?

This is Earth. Heaven glimmers yonder.
Pause a little space and ponder !

Day by day the fair world turneth

Dewy eyes to heaven and yearneth.

Day by day the mighty Mother

Sees her children smite each other :

She moans, she pleads, they do not hear her —

She prays — the skies seem gathering near her—

Yearning down diviner, bluer,

THE PRA YER IN THE NIGHT

Baring every star unto her, —

Each strange light with swinging censer

Sweeter seeming and intenser, —

Yet she ceaseth not her cry,

Seeing how her children die.

On her bosom they are lying,
Clinging to her, dead and dying —
Dead eyes frozen in imploring
Yonder heaven they died adoring,
Dying eyes that upward glimmer
Ever growing darker, dimmer ;
And her eyes, too, thither turning,
Asking, praying, weeping, yearning,
Search the blue abysses, whither
He who made her, brought her hither,
Gave her children, bade them grow,
Vanished from her long ago.

Ah, what children 1 Father, see them !
Never word of hers may free them —
Never word of love may win them.
For there burnetii fierce within them
Fire of thine ; soul-sick and sinning,
As they were in the beginning,
Here they wander. Father, see !
Generations born of Thee !

312 THE PRAYER IN THE NIGH7

Blest was Earth when on her bosom
First she saw the double blossom,
Double sweetness, man and woman,
One in twain, divine and human,
Leaping, laughing, crying, clinging,
To the sound of her sweet singing —
Flesh like lily and rose together,
Eyes as blue as April weather,
Golden hair with golden shadows,
In the face the light of meadows,
In the eyes the dim soul peeping
Like the sky in water sleeping.
' Guard them well ! ' the Father said,
Set them in her arms, — cuidfled.

Countless worlds around Him yearning,
Vanish'd He from her discerning ; — ■
Then she drooped her fair face, seeing
On her breast each gentle being ;
And unto her heart she prest them,
Raised her look to heaven and blest them ;
And the fountains leapt around her,
Leaves and flowers shot up and crown'd her,
Flowers bloom'd and streams ran gleaming.
Till with bliss she sank to dreaming ; —

THE PRAYER IN THE XIGII7 313

And the darkness for a cover
Gently drew its veil above her,
And the«ew-born smiled reposing,
And a million eyes unclosing
Warn'd through all the veil to see
That new fruit of mystery.

Father ! come from the abysses ;
Come, Thou light the Mother misses ;
Come ; while hungry generations
Pass away, she sits in patience.
Of the children Thou didst leave her,
Millions have been born to grieve her.
See ! they gather, living, dying,
Coming, going, multiplying ;
And the Mother, for the Father,
Though like waves they rise and gather,
Though they blossom thick as grasses,
Misses every one that passes,
Flashes on them peace and light
Of a love grown infinite.

Father ! see them : hath each creature
Something in him of Thy nature ?
Born of Thee and of no other,
Born to Thee by a sweet Mother,
Man strikes man, and brother brother.

314 THE PRAYER IN THE NIGHT

Hearts of men from Thy heart fashioned

Bleed and anguish bloody-passion'd \

Beast like roar the generations ;

Tiger-nations spring on nations ;

Though the stars yearn downward nightly,

Though the days come ever brightly,

Though to gentle holy couches

Death in angel's guise approaches,

Though they name Thee, though they woo Thee,

Though they dream of, yearn unto Thee,

111 they guess the guise Thou bearest,

111 they picture Thee, Thou Fairest ; —

Come again, O Father wise,

Awe them with those loving eyes !

Stars in heaven with tender faces,
Can ye see and keep your places ?
Flowers that on the Earth will blossom,
Can ye deck so sad a bosom ?
Canst thou singing flow for ever
Through a world so dark, O River ?
Father, canst Thou calmly scan
All that Man hath made of Man ?

3i5

THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE

Who passeth there
Naked and bare,
A bloody sword upraising ?
Who with thin moan
Glides past alone,
At the black heaven gazing ?
Limbs thin and stark,
Eyes sunken and dark,
The lightning round her leaping ?
What shape floats past
Upon the blast,
Crouching in pain and creeping ?

Behold ! her eyes to heaven are cast,
And they are red with weeping.

Say a prayer thrice
With lips of ice :
Tis she — yea, and no other ;
Look not at me

316 THE SPIRIT 01 IRAXCE

So piteously,
O France — 0 martyr mother !

O whither now,

With branded brow
And bleeding heart, art flying ?

Whither away ?

O stand ! O stay !
Tho' winds, waves, clouds are crying-
Dawn cometh swift — 'twill soon be day-
The Storm of God is dvinar.

She will not speak,

But, spent and weak,
Droops her proud head and goeth ;

See ! she crawls past,

Upon the blast,
Whither no mortal knoweth —

O'er fields of fight,

Where glimmer white
Death's steed and its gaunt rider —

Thro' storm and snow

Behold her go,
With never a friend beside her —

O Shepherd of all winds that blow,
To Quiet Waters guide her !

THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE 317

There, for a space,

Let her sad face
Fall in a tranquil mirror —

There spirit-sore

May she count o'er
Her sin, her shame, her error, —

And read with eyes

Made sweet and wise
What her strong God hath taught her,

With face grown fair

And bosom bare
And hands made clean from slaughter —
O Shepherd, seek and find her there,
Beside some Quiet Water 1

3i8

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SWORD

(Versailles, 187 1)

PRIEST
Hark to the Song of the Sword !
In the beginning, a Word
Came from the lips of the Lord ;
And He said, ' The Earth shall be,
And around the Earth and Sea,
And over these twain the Skies ;
And out of the Earth shall rise
Man, the last and the first ;
And Man shall hunger and thirst,
And shall eat of the fruits in the sun,
And drink of the streamlets that run,
And shall find the wild yellow grains,
And, opening earth, in its veins
Sow the seeds of the same ; for of bread
I have written that he shall be fed.'
Thus at the first said the Lord.

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SWORD 319

CHOIR

Hark to the Song of the Sword !

PRIEST

Then Man sowed the grain, and to bread

Kneaded the grain, and was fed,

He and his household indeed

To the last generation and seed :

Then the children of men, young and old,

Sat by the waters of gold,

And ate of the bread and the fruit,

And drank of the stream, but made suit

For blessing no more than the brute.

And God said, ' 'Twere better to die

Than eat and drink merely, and lie

Beast-like and foul on the sod,

Lusting, forgetful of God ! '

And he whispered, ' Dig deeper again,

Under the region of grain,

And bring forth the thing ye find there

Shapeless and dark ; and prepare

Fire, — and into the same

Cast what ye find — let it flame —

And when it is burning blood-bright,

Pluck it forth, and with hammers of might

320 THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SWORD

Beat it out, beat it out, till ye mark
The thing that was shapeless and dark
Grown beautiful, azure, and keen,
Purged in the fire and made clean,
Beautiful, holy, and bright,
Gleaming aloft in the light ; —
Then lift it, and wield ! ' said the Lord.

CHOIR

Hark to the Song of the Sword !

PRIEST

Then Man with a brighter desire
Saw the beautiful thing from the fire,
And the slothful arose, and the mean
Trembled to see it so keen,
And God, as they gather'd and cried,
Thunder'd a World far and wide :
' This Sword is the Sword of the Strong !
It shall strike at the life's blood of wrong ;
It shall kill the unclean, it shall wreak
My doom on the shameful and weak ;
And the strong with this sign in their hands
Shall gather their hosts in the lands,
And strike at the mean and the base,
And strengthen from race on to race ;

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SWORD

And the weak shall be wither'd at length,

For the glory of Man is his strength,

And the weak man must die,' saith the Lord.

CHOIR

Hark to the Song of the Sword !

PRIEST

Sire, whom all men of thy race
Name as their hope and their grace ;
King of the Rhine-water'd land,
Heart of the state and its hand,
Thou of the purple and crown,
Take, while thy servants bow down,
The Sword in thy grasp.

KAISER

It is done.

PRIEST

Uplift ! let it gleam in the sun —
Uplift in the name of the Lord !

CHOIR

Hail to the King and the Sword !

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SWORD

KAISER

Lo ! how it gleams in the light,
Beautiful, bloody, and bright —
Such in the dark days of yore
The monarchs of Israel bore ;
Such by the angels of heaven
To Charles the Mighty was given —
Yea, I uplift the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord !

THE CHIEFS

Form ye a circle of fire

Around him, our King and our Sire —

While in the centre he stands,

Kneel with your swords in your hands,

Then with one voice deep and free

Echo like waves of the sea —

' In the name of the Lord ! '

CHANCELLOR

Sire, while thou liftest the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord,
I too, thy slave, kneel and blend
My voice with the hosts that attend—

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SWORD 323

Yea, and while kneeling I hold

A scroll writ in letters of gold,

With the names of the monarchs who bow

Thy liegemen throned lower than thou 3

Moreover, in letters of red,

Their names who ere long must be led

To thy feet, while thou liftest the Sword,

Thus in the name of the Lord !

VOICES WITHOUT

Where is he ? — he fades from our sight !

Where the Sword ? — all is blacker than night.

Is it finish'd, that loudly ye cry ?

Doth he sheathe the great Sword while we die ?

O bury us deep, most deep ;

Write o'er us, wherever we sleep,

' In the name of the Lord ! '

KAISER

While I uplift the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord,
Why, with mine eyes full of tears,
Am I sick of the song in mine ears ?
God of the Israelite, hear ;
God of the Teuton, be near ;

324 THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SWORD

Strengthen my pulse lest I fail,
Shut out these slain while they wail —
For they come with the voice of the grave
On the glory they give me and gave.

CHORUS

In the name of the Lord ? Of what Lord ?
Where is He, this God of the Sword ?
Unfold Him ; where hath He his throne ?
Is He Lord of the Teuton alone ?
Doth He walk on the earth ? Doth He tread
On the limbs of the dying and dead ?
Unfold Him ! We sicken, and long
To look on this God of the strong !

PRIEST

Hush ! In the name of the Lord,
Kneel ye, and bless ye the Sword !
Bless it with soul and with brain,
Bless it for saved and for slain,
For the sake of the dead in the tomb,
For the sake of the child in the womb,
For the sake of these Kings on the knee,
For the sake of a world it shall free !
Bless it, the Sword ! bless the Sword !
Yea, in the name of the Lord !

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE SWORD
CHIEFS

Deepen the circle of Fire
Around him, our King and our Sire !
While in our centre he towers,
Kneeling, ye spirits, ye powers,
Bless it and bless it again,
Bless it for saved and for slain,
Bless ye the beautiful Sword,
Aloud in the name of the Lord !

KAISER

In the name of the Lord !

ALL

In the name of the Lord !

325

326

THE CHA UNT B Y THE RHINE
(1871)

Te veio appello sanctissimum Flumex, tibique futura prsedico :
torrenti sanguine plenus ad ripas usque erumpes, undseque divinse
non solum polluentur sanguine, sed totse rumpentur, et viris multo
major erit numeras sepultorum. Quid fles, O Asclepi? — The
Asclepiax Dialogue.

FIRST VOICE
(From Germany)

Flash the sword ! — and even as thunder

Utter ye one living voice, —
While the watching nations wonder,

Hills of Fatherland, rejoice :
Echo ! — echo back our prayers and acclamations !

SECOND VOICE
(From France)

France, O Mother ! lie and hearken,

Make no bitterer sign of woe,
Here within thee all things darken,

All things brighten with thy foe :
Hush thy weeping ; still thy bitter lamentations.

THE CHAUN1 BY THE RHINE 327

FIRST VOICE

Flash the sword ! — A voice is flowing

From the Baltic bound in white,
Though 'tis blowing chill and snowing,

Blue-eyed Teutons see the light.
And the far white hills of Norway hear the crying.

SECOND VOICE

Thou too hearkenest, Mother dearest,
Thou too hearkenest through thy tears,

And thou tremblest as thou hearest,
For 'tis thunder in thine ears ;
And thou gazest on the dead and on the dying.

FIRST VOICE

Liibeck answers and rejoices,

Though her dead are brought to her ;

Potsdam thunders ; there are voices
In the fields of Hanover ;
And the spirits of the lonely Hartz awaken.

SECOND VOICE

And in France's vales and mountains

Hands are wrung and tears are shed ;
Women sit by village fountains,
And the water bubbles red.
O comfort, O be of comfort — ye forsaken !

328 THE CHAUNT BY THE RHINE

FIRST VOICE

O'er Bavarian woods and rivers,

Where the Brunswick heather waves,

On the glory goes and quivers
Through the Erzgebirge caves ;
And the swords of Styria gleam like moonlit water.

SECOND VOICE

There is silence, there is weeping,

On the bloody banks of Seine,
And the unburied dead are sleeping

In the fields of trampled grain ;
While the roadside Christs stare down on fields of slaughter.

FIRST VOICE

Flash the sword ! Where need is sorest,

Sitting in the lonely night,
While the wind in the Black Forest
Moans, the woodman sees the light ;
And the hunters wind the horn and hail each other.

SECOND VOICE

Strasbourg sits among her ashes

With a last despairing cry ;
East and west red ruin flashes
With a red light on the sky.
Not a word ! Sit yet and hearken, O my Mother !

THE CIIM'XT BY THE RHINE 329

FIRST VOICE
Flash the sword ! The glades of Baden

Echo ; Jena laughs anon ;
Dresden old and Stuttgart gladden,
There is mirth in Ratisbon : —
And underneath the Linden there is leaping.

SECOND VOICE

In thine arms the horror tarries,

And the sword-flash gleams on thee,

Hide thy funeral face, O Paris,
Do not hearken ; do not see ;
Electra, clasp thine urn, and hush thy weeping.

FIRST VOICE

Hamburg kindles, and her women

Sadly smile remembering all ;

There are bitter smiles in Bremen,

Where Vandamme's fierce feet did fall ;
But the Katzbach, O the Katzbach laugheth loudly !

SECOND VOICE.

Comfort, Mother ! hear not, heed not ;

Let the dead bury the dead !
Fold thy powerless hands and plead not,
They remember sorrows fled,
And their dead go by them, silently and proudly.

330 THE C HAUNT BY THE RHIAE

FIRST VOICE

0 that Fritz's soul could hear it
In the walks of Sans Souci !
O to waken Liitzow's spirit,

Blucher's too, the grim and free ;
And the Jager, the wild Jager, would they listen'd !

SECOND VOICE

Comfort, Mother ! O cease weeping !

Let the past bury the past :
Faces of the slain and sleeping

Gleam along upon the blast.
Yea, 'twas 'Leipsic ' that they murmur'd as they glisten'd.

FIRST VOICE

All the land of the great River

Slowly brightens near and far ;
Lost for once, and saved for ever,

Korner's spirit like a star
Shooteth past, and all remember the beginning.

SECOND VOICE

They are rising, they are winging,

Spirits of her singers dead :
Tis an old song they are singing,
Fold thy hands and bow thy head,
But they sing for thee too, gentle to thy sinning.

THE CHAT XT BY THE RHINE 331

FIRST VOICE
And the River to the ocean

Rolls ; and all its castles dim
Gleam ; and with a shadowy motion,
Like a mist upon its brim,
Rise the Dead, — and look this way with shining faces.

SECOND VOICE

Thine, too, rise ! — and darkly cluster,

Moaning sad around thee now,
In their eyes there is no lustre,

They are cold as thy cold brow —
Let them vanish ; let them sleep in their dark places.

FIRST VOICE

Flash the sword ! In the fair valleys

Where the scented Neckar flows,
Fair-hair'd Teutons lift the chalice,

And the winter vineyard grows,
And the almond forests tremble into blossom.

SECOND VOICE

On thy vineyards the cold daylight
Gleams, and they are deadly chill ;

Women wander in the grey light,
And the lean trees whistle shrill ;
Hold thine urn, O martyr Mother, to thy bosom.

332 THE CHAUNT BY THE RHINE

FIRST VOICE

Flash the sword ! Sweet notes of pleasure
O'er the Rhenish upland swell,

And the overhanging azure
Sees itself in the Moselle.
All the land of the great River gleams and hearkens !

SECOND VOICE

Dost thou hear them ? dost thou see them ?

There 'tis gladness, here 'tis pain ;
One great Spirit comes to free them,

But he holds thee with a chain.
All the land of the great City weeps and darkens !

FIRST VOICE

River of the mighty people,

Broaden to the sea and flow
Mirror tilth and farm and steeple,
Darken with boats that come and go.
Smile gently, like a babe that smiles and prattles.

SECOND VOICE

Yea ! and though thou flow for ever,
Bright and bloodless as to-day,

Scarcely wilt thou wash, O River,
Thy dark load of dead away,
O bloody River ! O field of many battles !

THE CHAUNT BY THE RHINE 333

FIRST VOICE

On with great immortal waters
Brightening to a day divine,
Through the fields of many slaughters
Freely roll, O German Rhine.
Let the Teuton drink thy wine and wax the stronger.

SECOND VOICE

On and on, O mighty River,

Flow through lands of corn and vine —

Turn away, O France, for ever,
Look no more upon the Rhine ;
On the River of many sorrows look no longer.

FIRST VOICE

Lo ! the white Alps for a token

With the wild aurora gleam,
And the Spectre of the Brocken

Stands aloft with locks that stream, —
All the land of the great River can behold it !

SECOND VOICE

Hide thine eyes and look not thither !

For, in answer to their cries,
Fierce the Phantasm gazeth hither

With an Avenging Angel's eyes ;
It is fading, and the mists of storm enfold it !

FACES ON THE WALL

(L'ENVOI TO VOL. II)

FACES ON THE WALL

i

LONE HOUSE

I -one House amid the Main, where I abide,

Faces there are around thy walls ; and see
With constant features, fair and faithful-eyed,

In solemn silence these admonish me.

They are the Faces of the strong and free;
Prophets who on the car of Tempest ride;
Martyrs who drift amid the waters wide

On some frail raft, and pray on bended knee.
Stay with me, Faces ! make me free and strong !

On other walls let flush'd Bacchantes leer;
In quainter rooms of snugger sons of song

Let old fantastic tapestries appear.
Lone House ! for comfort, when the nights are long,

Let none but future-seeking eyes be here !

338 FACES ON THE WALL

II
STORM AND CALM

The lone House shakes, the wild waves leap around,

Their sharp mouths foam, their frantic hands wave high ;
I hear around me a sad soul of sound, —

A ceaseless sob, — a melancholy cry.

Above, there is the trouble of the sky.
On either side stretch waters with no bound.

Within, my cheek upon my hand, sit I,
Oft startled by sick faces of the drown'd.

Yet are there golden dawns and glassy days
When the vast Sea is smooth and sunk in rest,

And in the sea the gentle heaven doth gaze,
And, seeing its own beauty, smiles its best ;

With nights of peace, when, in a virgin haze,
God's Moon wades thro' the shallows of the West.

FACES ON THE WALL

ill
WITHOUT AND WITHIN

The Sea without, the silent room within,

The Mystery above, the Void below !
I watch the storms die and the storms begin ;

I see the white ships ghost-like come and go ;

I wave a signal they may see and know,
As, crowding up on deck with faces thin,
The seamen pass, — some sheltered creek to win,

Or drift to whirling pools of pain and woe.
What prospect, then, on midnights dark and dead,

When the room rocks and the wild water calls ? —
Only to mark the beacon I have fed,

"Whose cold streak glassily on the black sea falls ;
Only, while the dim lamp burns overhead,

To watch the glimmering Faces on the walls.

34° FACES ON THE WALL

IV
NAPOLEON

Look on that picture, and on this. . . . Behold
The Face that frown'd the rights of realms away ;

The imperial forehead, filleted with gold ;
The arrogant chin, the lips of frozen clay.
This is the later Cassar, whose great day

Was one long sunset in blood-ruby rolled,
Till, on an ocean-island lone and gray,

It sank unblest, forgotten, dead, and cold.
Yea, this is he who swept from plain to plain,
Watering the harvest-fields with crimson rain ;

This is the Eagle who on garbage fed.

Turn to the wall the pitiless eyes. Art, Thought,
Law, Science, owed the monster less than nought ;

And Nature breath'd again when he was dead.

V THE WALL 341

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Turn ; and, behold the sad Soul of the West

Passing behind a Rainbow bloodily !

Conscience incarnate, steadfast, strong, and free,
Changeless thro' change, blessing and ever blessed-
Sad storm-cloud with God's Iris on his breast,

Across the troubled ocean travelled he, —
was his passing ! gentle be his rest !

God's Bow sails with him on another sea !

At first no larger than a prophet's hand,

Against the dense insufferable blue
Cloud-like he came ; and by a fierce win d fanned,

Didst gather into greatness ere we knew,
Then, flash by flash, most desolately grand,

Passed away sadly heavenward, dropping dew !

342

I- ACES ON THE WALL

VI

WALT WHITMAN

Friend Whitman ! wert thou less serene and kind,

Surely thou mightest (like our Bard sublime,
Scorn'd by a generation deaf and blind),

Make thine appeal to the avenger, Time;

For thou art none of those who upward climb,
Gathering roses with a vacant mind,
Ne'er have thy hands for jaded triflers twined

Sick flowers of rhetoric and weeds of rhyme.
Nay, thine hath been a Prophet's stormier fate.
While Lincoln and the martyr'd legions wait

In the yet widening blue of yonder sky,
On the great strand below them thou art seen, —
Blessing, with something Christ-like in thy mien,

A sea of turbulent lives that break and die !

FACES OiV THE WALL 343

VII

O FACES !

0 Faces ! that look forward, eyes that spell
The future time for signs, what see ye there ?

On what far gleams of portent do ye dwell ?

Whither, with lips like quivering leaves and hair
Back-blowing in the whirlwind, do ye stare

So steadfast and so still ? Oh speak and tell !

Is die soul safe ? shall the sick world be well?
Will morning glimmer soon, and all be fair ?

1 ) Faces ! ye are pale, and somewhat sad,

And in your eyes there swim the fatal tears ;
But on your brows the dawn gleams cold and hoar.

I, too, gaze forward, and my heart grows glad ;
I catch the comfort of the golden years ;

I see the Soul is safe for evermore !

344 FACES 0AT THE HALL

VIII

TO TRIFLERS

Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, oh far

Be your thin monotone, your brows flower-crown'd,
Your backward-looking faces ; for ye mar

The pregnant time with silly sooth of sound,

With flowers around the feverish temples bound,
And withering in the close air of the feast.

Take all'the summer pleasures ye have found,
While Circe-charm'd ye turn to bird and beast.

Meantime I sit apart, a lonely wight
On this bare rock amid this fitful Sea,

And in the wind and rain I try to light
A little lamp that may a Beacon be,

Whereby poor ship-folk, driving thro' the night,
May gain the Ocean-course, and think of me !

ON THE WALL 345

THE WANDERERS

God's blessing on poor ship-folk ! Peace and prayer

Fall on their eyelids till thev close in sleep !
God send them gentle winds and summer air,

For the great sea is treacherous and deep.

Light me up lamps on every ocean-steep, —
Beacon the shallows with a loving care.

Ay me ! the wind cries and the wild waves leap,
And on they drive — God knows — //^knownot — where.

Come Poets ! come, O Prophets ! yea, disown
The phantasies and phantoms ye pursue !

Lights ! lights ! with fatal snares the sea is sown.
Guide the poor ship-folk lone beneath the blue.

Nay, do not light for Lazarus alone,
But lieht for Dives and the Devil too.

346 FACES ON THE WALL

X

THE WATCHER OF THE BEACON

Lone is his life who, on a sea-tower blind,

Watchefh all weathers o'er the beacon-light.
Ah ! woe to him if, mad with his own mind,

He groweth sick for scenes more sweet and bright ;

For round him, in the dreadful winter night,
The snow drifts, and the waves beat, and the wind

Shrieks desolately, while with feeble sight
He readeth some old Scripture left behind

By those who sat before him in that place,
And in their season perish'd, one and all. . . .
Wild raves the wind : the Faces on the wall

Seem phantoms : features dark and dim to trace.
He starteth up — he tottereth — he would fall,

When, lo ! the gleam of one Diviner Face !

FACES ON THE WALL 347

XI
v AND THE SPIRIT OF GOD MOVED UPON THE WATERS.'

O Faces ! facie upon the wall, and leave

This only, for the watcher to implore.
Dim with the peace that starry twilights weave,

It riseth, and the storm is hush'd and o'er.

Trembling I feed my feeble lamp once more,
Tho' all be placid as a summer eve.
See there it moves where weary waters grieve, —

O mariners ! look yonder and adore !

Spirit, grow brighter on my nights and days ;
Shine out of heaven ; my guide and comfort be :

Pilot the wanderers through the ocean ways :
Keep the stars steadfast, and the waters free :

Lighten thy lonely creature while he prays :
Keep his Soul strong amid the mighty Sea !

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